LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

TRAt^T^ 

Shelf. .H-3i.S^ 

I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



|l Jriiiuati^nition, in £j)rce ^tfs. 



OF 



CHAS. DICKENS" CHRISTMAS STORY 



()K 'I'UE SAMK TITI.K 



Bv CHARLES A. SCOTT. 



NEWAKK, N. J.: 

NEW JERSEY SOLDIERS' HOME PRINT. 

1878. 



THE 



ttAUUTEC MAN! 



A Drani.itizcr>.ion in 'ri-irc(: Acts 



C^Ht^S, 1d1CKJ:?JS' Ctf?JSTM7^0 STCT-Y 



>F THE sa:me title. 



BY Charles A. Scott. 



1878. 



r 



ri?'^^? 



.H^ 



5 A- 



EaU.r.,1 aoc.,.r.linK h. Acl. c,f Cm^iess, i„ the v.ur 1S7S. 1, 
(^Hvu.Ks A. 8.:oTr, in the ui]i V of tlu. Lihrariau of Co.Havss . 

A\l rights resolved. 

This e.litio:iis linrtol an I is pniil^ltor tli ■ .•onv.o.ie.K- of r 

. ,. . ' ' '^'••■■•^ s.icU alteiMtious as iii:iv se -u 

ju.JiOions. 



CHARACTERS 



Ru-lnrl Rj.ll.r.v. n Pi-.jfjsr«)r of Choiuistry 

Th^ P]i:iuto:a of Ri-dlaw 

.T.au3s LoagforJ, a foi-sii n- fridu.l of 11 'dliw. . 

Elmuad Louj^fcr.l. a stndjut, ami sou of J.imcs LougfoVil. 
Philip S\vi<l4-rs. aged 87 

W'lUu.) S^vid^.r .it.' i. T„ •!• 

(i., .r^e S ,vidKei>., | ^^"^ «^ ^^'"^'i' 

A lolnhns T»tt<)rby. a newsd^al.a- 

Ailolji'ius 'IVttarIn', Jr., a uewsboy 

Julmny Tetimby, Moloch's viitiiii 

'J'hi-oe Tflterby fhildreii 

Th-' Waif, a shvet ganiiu 

JMrs. William Swidgers 

Mrs. Sopliia Tetterby 

Alice Wcutwort'a 



COSTUMES. 



Itedhyi'. B'ack or brown suit: loncf scpiare tai'ecl cnt- 
v.wty coat, longf vest, black neckerchief. Ion*,' black hai7% 
fini^ed with grtv-grizzled ; hollow clie< ks ; age 5-'); low- 
( ]-(wned hat. 

J*hant<)))i. Same as Iledlaw. 

Jantes Lonr/foni. A seedy suit of I la'^-k, (^oat bnttono 1 
rp to chin ; iron grey wig, short hair, battered hat, dissi- 
I'Hted appearance : sge 50. 

Kilniinid Lainjford. Morning goMn. W.i'king suit. 

J*hiHj^ S}rl(J(/ers. Old fashii ned dcnblet, light blu;:! ; 
l)roAYn trousers ; great eoat, leggings and low crowne 1 
hat for out doors ; cot+on sliirt, bald Avig, long thin whit j 
hair ; age 87. 

Wdllain, SirUhjfvH. Fly-away coat, red wiistfioat, grey 
trousers, white scarf ; drab box coat, and low crowned hat 
for oiit doors: short light hair, on end all over : age 3 "J. 

Gmi'ffe Sii'Uh/crs. Rough sui'-, worse for Av^'av; slrigj-y 
l)eard under chin ; sandy hair, unktinpt; slon:'h hat; agtj 
45. 

Tetterh;/. Striped woolen trousers, black waistcoat 
shirt, no eoat or collar, black neckerchief; iron grey wig. 
short hair, smoijth f. c^ ; age 50. 

Ailolphna and Johmii/. B(.ys' ill fitting siiits. r.igge 1 
and torn, and Johnny's trousers too short ; cap an 1 com- 
forter for Alolp'ni^. 

Children. CoarKonight s'ips and ragged suits. 

'J'he Waif. I3oy"s ragged suit: sho( k wig : dirty face. 

JA-s. Wdliatn: Rid and white fisjwered skirt : black 
bodice, white apron, a trim, tidy c:^p ; bonnet andAVOolen 
shawl for out doors : age 25. 

J//*.-?. Tetferhy. A house dress of comni-'n material ; 
Ixmnet and shtwl; ajfe 45. S!i y\. \ bj a iu\^.i womia, 

Alice. Traveling siiil 



Furniture and Properties. 

-A.OM? I. 

SCENP] 1. Fi.m- leallier-botloiiicd diiiirP, lilf^-li-back- 
ed. iuiti(iiie [)a(leni ; tu' lo, c , roturts and crucibles ; .jafs 
(irchciiiic.ils, iiicasures, books, &c., i^c, dip[tlay(.'(l. CJlobi; 
bnii|) (111 (al)lc ; diiiiicr tray, easier, two plates, kiiiCc and 
iofk ; tliivfi tallo spoons, t!u-ee tci spoons, saltcellar, 
tnndiler, decani er of water, bread, napkins, bntter. Tray 
with roa^t Ibwl, niaslied p'>tat(j('S, <;ravyboat for Milly t.) 
enter witli. Holly and evergreens, with red berries, Ibr 
I'hilip lo enter with, i'luso for Redl .w. 

. .^CENE 1. Tab1<\ c, four common chairs; Imfiet with 
ci-iickeiy, I,, u. K Ncwspiper rcreoii before door, i. 2 . 
'I'lundle bed, u. u. K. ^.tairu'ay, r. 3 >:. Oyster s..ells for 
bo'.BatR. 2 E. k-',t(jnl lor Johnny, r ( radle, l. 3 r. 
^larket basket viih p(>as-[)ndilinL? wrapped in papei-, and 
kiinckl(! (d" roast l.>^' of poik with gravy and cracklin'^'s, in 
a lar^c cover(>d dish tn- basin, bread for Mrs. Tetteiby to 
enter \>itli. I'itcher of water and glass on buffet. 

SCENE 2. No properties. 

SlEXE ;J. Couch at l 2e; small tabic near head (d' 
c<»n<'h ; two common chairs Eook for Edmund. Ihirse 
for Uedl iw to enter with. Wuik basket and muslin fur 
^lilly to cider with. 

SCENE 4. T.uckle bed, e. 3 e. ; small stand at hoad 
of bed ; lighted candle on bed. 

-^O'l? XXX. 

SCENE 1. Gauze fr centre duor of 11 t. Table and 
chair, R. c. 

SCENE 2. Same as Scone 1, Act 11. Baby in cradl •. 

SCENE .'3. No properties. 

SCENE d. Set fire l. 2 e. Easy ch ir fn- Pliilip. 
Table, c. Four chairs and sofa. Clulhing convenient for 
Milly to put on boy. 



#1111 ka,ij-kt: 



Act. I. 

THE GIFT BESTOWED. 

SCENE I. — J//-. J^edlaw's chamber, 4 g. boxed; part //- 
brari/ a) id 'part laboratori/. JJoors, v. Old fashioned 
fire-place, l. Table, c. Three or four leather bottovi- 
ed chairs, antlrjne pattern; globe lamp on table. IA<jhts 
down at rise of curtain. Mr. Redlaw discovered seat- 
ed at R. of table, apjyarenth/ burled ui thought. Ji/ior/>; 

L. C. I). 

liedlair. "Who's that ? Como in. 

J'J liter Wm. /^i/u'dgers, L., iclth dinner tray, carefully 
oj^eiilng and closing the door, to prerent noise. 
Wllllaiv. I'm biinibly f'oiifiil, sir, that it's a good hit 
past the time to-night. But Mrs. William has been taken 
uiY her b'gs bo often — 

Jied. Hy the wiiul ? Ay ! I have lieard it rising, 
lyni. ( /*uts tray dovjn, lights the lamp — lights up — 
(tnd spreads the cloth.) By the wind, sir. That it's a 
mercy she gut home at all. dear, jes. Yes. It was, 
by the wind, Mr. liedlaw. By the wind. Mrs. William 
i.s of course subject at any time, sir, to be taken oil' Iier 
balance by the elements. She is not formed superior to 
that. 

J ted. No. {Abruptly , bat good-naturedly .) 
'Wni. No, sir. Mrs. William m '.y be taken (,)fr her 
balance l)y Earth; by Air; by Fire; ])y Water. Yes, 
sir. Mrs. William must be taken out of tlio elements, f<jr 
tiie strength of htr character to come into play. 



Act On:5.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 7 

lied. Yt 8. ( In same tone as before ) 
Wji). Yep, H:r. Oh dear, yes ! {J'repar!i}'j table and 
checkinij t/ie art'cles «,^' he <irra))(jes t/iCDi .) T.iat's where 
it is, Bir. Thti.'.s what I tuways say luyseir, h.y. Such ;i 
luaiiy of lis Swidgers ! — Pc]>'per. Why, there'ri my 
father, sir, super.Jirmated L:oe2:)er and cu.studian ef this 
Institution, eighly-scvdu years old. lies a Swidger ! — 

Red. True, "William (AbMrartedb/ ) 

]r?/<. Yes, sir. That's what I always say, sir. You 
lary call him the trunk of the trf^e. — livead. Taen you 
rome to his successor, n.y unworthy seh' — ,svo'/ — and Mrs. 
AYiliiam Swidj,'tr3 both. — Knl^e and /ork. Then you 
(!ome to all my bothers and their families, Swidg-ers, man 
and woman, boy and girl. Why, wdiat with cousins, 
uncles, aunts, and relationship with this, that and t'other 
degree, and what not degi-ee ; and marriages and lyings- 
i;i, the Swidges — tund/ler — might take hold of hands and 
make a ring around England! {Redlair, en(/rossed hi 
thought^ thakuu/ no rephj, WillUon n/a/ie.s a feint of av- 
eide/ntally knocking the table irlth a decanter, and si/c- 
ceediny in rousing him, re.^ttme.s.) Yes, sir ! That's just 
what I say myself, sir. Mrs. William and ma have often 
fc^aid so. Theie's Swidgers enough, we say, without our 
voluntary contributions. — Ilutier. In fact, sir, my father 
is a family in himself — ca.ster — to take care of : and it 
li ippens all for tic best that we have no child of our own, 
though i'b's made Mrs. AVilliam rather quiet-like, too. 
Quite reacy for the fowd and masbc 1 potatoes, sir 1 Mrs. 
"SSal.iam said she'd dish in ten minutes, when I left the 
Lodge. 

lied. I am quite ready. (Rousing himself af< If from 
a dream, and ioalking t.) and fro.) 

Wni. { Warming a plate at the fire, and shading his 
face icith it. ) Mrs. AVilliam has been at it again, sir ! 



H THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act One. 

(Jledlaw stops walking, and appears hiferested.) What 
1 always say myself, sir. She will do it ! There's a 
motherly feeling; in Mrs. "William's breast th it must and 
will have went. 

Jied. "What has she done ? 

ir?«. Why. sir, not satisfied with being a sort of 
mother to all the young gentlemen that come up from a 
wariety of parts, to attend to yom- coiirses of lectures at 
tliis ancient foundation — it's surprising Iioav stonc-chanc}^ 
catches the heat tliis frosty weather, to be sure ! ( Turn- 
ing the plats quickly, and cooling his Jingers.) 

J.ed. Weir? 

Wm. Tijat/s just what I say myself, rir, {spea7ci)ig 
over his shoulder in dellghtexl asxen^t.) That's exact y 
where it is. There ain't one of our students but ajDpeai-.s 
to regard Mrs. William in that light. Every day, they 
puts their heads into the lo.lge one after another, and 
have all got sometliing to tell her, or somtt'-iing to ask 
her. Swidge is the appellation in general by which thty 
f-peak of Mrs. AVdliam among themselves ; but that's 
what I say, sir. Better be called ever so far out of your 
n ime, if i."s done in real liking, than have it made ever so 
much of, and not cared about. What's a name 'or? To know 
a person by. If Mrs. Willif.in is known by something 
bc.tter thr.n htr name — I allude to Mrs. Wi liam's quali- 
ties and dispofition — never mini her name, though it is 
Swidge]-, by lights. Let 'em call her Swidge, Wi(lge.Bridg« , 
L.mdon Bridge, B.ar*kf. iais, or any other bridge, if they 
like ! ( linslness irith plate, vhich he brings to the table, 
and half drops it, icith a lively sense of its being heated.) 
lUnter JStilly ifith tray^ door in flat, foUoved by Old 

Philip with holly in his arms. Mr. Jiedlatc takes seat 

at K. <f table, with his elbows resting upon it, and his 

left hand to his forehead. Williani goes to the door 

and rellcces Jlillg <f the tray. 
2 



Acr Onf.] the IIAUaTED MAN. 9 

Wji>. Punctiiil, of course, M lly, or it woulln'fc ho 
you. Here's Mrs. William, sir! — Kj looks lonelier than 
ever tc-niglit, and ghostlier alto;;-oLii.n'. { .L-tldi to MUlif 
as he tu/i-es the tra//. ^ III come dmni. Millij sets thln.yti 
<!)i tal.'lc quietly; IVllliani, bustltn^ about with, gravj- 
boat; I'hllip advances to L. c. in front of table.) 

JU'd. What is that ths old man has in his arms ? 

Mllbj. Holly, sir. 

W}ii. Thai's what I say myself, sir. Bsrries is so seis- 
<;nable to the time of year. — Brown gravy. 

lied. Another Christmas come, another year gone ! 
T^Icre ligures in the leagJuning sum Ol recollection tint 
Ave A\ork and Vv^ork at, to our torment, till death idly 
jumbks all together, and rubs all out. [Rxlslnj hts 
rolce. JIill<^ takes holt y from the old man, and begins 
to decorate the room.) So, Phiip \ 

I'hll. My duty tt) you, sir. Should have spoken be- 
fv.re, eir, bi.t know your ways, Mr, Rediaw — proud to say 
— .Mid wait till spoke to ! Merry CLr stmas, sir, and Hap- 
py New Year, and many of 'em. Have had a pretty 
many of 'em myself — ha, ha ! — anl may take tin; liberty 
<i wi:-hing 'em. I'm eighty-seven ! 

J led. H^ve you had so many that were merry and 
happy '? 

J'hil. Ay. sh', ever so many. 

lied, [to Wni ) Is his memory im^^aired wi!;h age? IL 
ib to be expected now. 

}V)n. Net a morsel of it, sir. That's exactly what I 
f-ny n yself, sir. There never was such a memory as my 
IVvthei-'s. He's the most Avunderful man in the world. Ha 
doii'i know what forgetting means. U's the verj' obser- 
VLition I'm always making to Mrs. William, sir, if you'il 
l)el;ove me. 

{P'iUi]i has cros.'^ed to l. an 'I is looking at a sprig of 
/•dig. lledlau' 2>iishes his plats au'ag, rises, ajtd crosses 



10 THE HAUNTED VAS. [\ct One. 

to Philip, touchlnff him v2)on the shoulder.) 

lied. It recalls the time when inary of tliose years 
were old and new, then ? Does it ? 

J^hll. Oh, many, many. I'm eighty-seven. 

JRed. {Iji a low voice) Merry and happy, was it ? 
Merry and happy, old man 1 

I^hil. May be as high as that, no higher {holding hU 
hand out a little above the level of his knee), when I first 
remember 'em. Cold, simshiny day it was, out a-walk- 
ing, when some cne — it was my mother as STire as yon 
yon stand there, though I don't know what her blessed 
face was like, for she took ill and died that Christmas- 
time — told me they were food for birds. {Refers to the 
berries.) The pretty little boy thonght — that's me, yon 
understand — that bird's eyos were so bright, perhaps, be- 
cause the berries they lived on in the winter were so 
bright. I recollect that. And I am eighty-seven ! 

lied. {3Iusl)ig. ) Merry and happy ! Merry and 
happy — and remember well ! 

I^hll. Ay, ay, ay ! I remember 'em well in my school 
time, year after year, and all the merry making that used 
to come along with them. I was a strong chap then, 
Mr. Eediaw ; and if you'll believe me, hadn't my match at 
foot-ball within ten mile. Where's my son, William ? 
Hadn't my match at foot-ball, William, within ten mile. 

Wni. That's what I always say, father! You are a 
Swidger, if ever there was one in the family ! 

Phil. When my circumstances got to be not so good 
as formerly, through not being honestly dealt by, and I 
first come here to be custodian, which was upward of 50 
years ago — whei'e's my son William ? More than half a 
century ago, William ! 

Wm. That's what I ssy, father; that's exactly where 
it is. Two times ought's and ought, and twic3 five tea, 
and there's a hundi-ed of 'em. 



A(i One] THE HirNTED MAN. 11 

J*hiL It was qnite a pleaKiire to >now that r,Tie of riir 
foixndfcrs, that he'p3d to endow up in Queen Elizabeth's 
time, left in Iris will, among other bequests he made us, 
j-x) much to buy holh', :'ct gornishing the walls and wiu- 
(lo-s\H, ccme Christmas. There wns something homelj' and 
friendly in it. Being bi\t strange here, then, and coming 
i\i Christmaf--t'me, we to( k a liking for his very picter, 
iJiat hangs in what usid to be, ancient y, our great Din- 
ner Hall. — A sedate gentleman, in a peaked beard, with a 
rufi around his nc(k. and a scroll below him, in old Enj.,- 
lish letters, '"Lcrd! keep my memojy green!" Yuu 
know all about him, Mr . Redkiw ? 

Bed. I knew the pcilrait hangs there, Ph Tp. 

J^hil'qK Yes, sure, ifs the second on the right, above 
the panneling. I was goirg to siy— he has helj^ed to 
keep my memory green, I thjaik him : for, going round 
the building every year, as I'm a-doing now, and fresher.- 
ing up the bare rooms with the branches, the bright ber- 
ries freshens up my bare eld brain. One 3-ear brings 
back another, and that year another, and these others, 
numbers ! At Its':, it seems ti me as if the birth- time of 
( nr Lor J was the birth-l.'nia of all I have ever had affec- 
tion for, or mov.rned fc ]•, c r delighted in ; and they are 
I retty many, for I'm eighty-seven. 

lied. Merry and happy. (Abstyoctcdb/.) 

JViil. So you see, sir, I have plenty- to keep when I 
keep this .season. Noav, where's my cjuiet mouse ? Chat- 
tering's the sin of my time of life, and there's half the 
])uilding to do yet, if the cold dcn't freeze i;s, or the wind 
<"!on't blow us away, or the darkness don't swallow lis up. 
(Milhj joins lihu, and they start to yo out.) Comeawsy, 
iny dear. Mr. Eedlaw won't settle to his dinner, other- 
wise, tid it's cold as Avinter. I hope you'll exciise me 
rrmbling on, sir, and I wish you good night, and, once 
icain, a merrv 



I^ THE HAITNTED 5IAN. [Act One. 

RpfJ . Stiiy. {Resumes seat at. tnhh.') S-pare mo an- 
etla-r moment, Pliili[>. VYilliam, you w(.ro goiiij^ to tcU 
)ne fiometliiiiTf to j-our excellent wife's lionoi-. It will not 
t)e disagreeable to her to hear you praise her. What w. » 

it:'' 

Win. Why, that's Avliero it is, you sec, sir. Mrs. 
WiHi^m has got her eye upon uve. 

Jied. But you are iml alraid t>r Mrw. William's eye 'i 
Win. Wliy, no, nir ; tluit's what I say n>v8elf. It 
wnsnt made to he alVaid ol'. it wouldn't have been made 
8u mild it' that was tlie isitentioii. But I wouldn t like 
to— Milly — him you knmv. Down in the biiildin .,s. Tell; 
liini, my de.ir! You're t, c works id' '•ihaks|R.'ar in eom- 
jiarison with mysell". Bown in the buildin-s, you kni>u-,. 
my love — htudcnt. 

lied. Student 'i 

Wilt. That's what I ^ ay, ftir ? If it wasn't the j)oo!.- 
student down in the buildui ..s. why should }(ju Nvis.i t'^ 
hfar it from .Mrs. N\ illiams lip.-;.'' Aiis. W illianj, my dear 
— Pxiihl B^'s 

Milly. I didn't knou' that WilTam had s.^id an; tliin^L; 
about it. or I wouldn't ha\e eome. 1 . sked hini nut to. 
It's a siek yoiiiij^- j;-e'itleni m, sir — ami very^ pool-, I ant 
al'raid — who is loo dl to j^o lionse this holiday-tinu', and 
li\-es, unknown to any one, down in Jerusalem buildings^ 
That's all, sir. 

hed. {Ji/si/n/ ItiirviedlvA Why hav(> I never heard oi." 
hhn 'i "Why has l)r n.it made l-is situation kn'>wn to uw'. 
[•lick ! (!ive rue my hat and ehuik ! J'oor ! — wliat house,, 
winit nnndier '' 

Millij. Oh, you nuisn't g-o there, sir. {(J<nifro)ittii(j 
him.) 

Red. Not pr> there ^ WLat do you menu ? 

Will. \V1 y vmi sre, sir, tliat s what I say. Bfp'Mid 
ujiou it, t:;e }uuiii^- yiMilleuuin would never liave uuide hit> 



A(rr One.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 13 

situation known to one of liis own sex. Mrs. Wiiliatn 
has got into his oontidcncc. Thvy all contide in Mrs. 
AViiiiam ; they all trust uer. A man, sir, couldn't liavo 
got a wliisper out oi liini ; but woman, sir, and Mrs. 
AV^iliiam combined — ! 

Jitd. There's good sense and delicar y in what you 
say, William. {Stcretly paU jmrse into MU.ly\s fuinxL) 

MiUy. Oh dear, no sir {Gives pume back.) He said 
that of all the world, he would ii )t be known to you, or 
receive help from y^u — though he is a siudent in your 
class. 

Jled. Why did he say S). 

Milly. Indeed I c^iu't tell, sir. Eut 1 know he is poor 
and lonely, and I think he is somehow neglected, to*). 
[Stage (jradaally darkened.) How dark it is. 

Jled. What more about him t 

Milly. He is engaged to be married when he can ai- 
ford it, and is stud;^dng, I think, to <|ualify himself to 
earn a living. — How vejy dark it is. 

J*hiL It's turned colder, too. There's a chill and dis-^ 
mal feeling in the room. Where's my son William? Wil- 
liam, my boy, turn the lamp and j ouse the fire ! 

Milly. {Jieanminy, as if to herself. ) He muttered in 
his broken sleep yesterday afternoon, after talking to me 
about some one dead, and some great wrong done tliat 
could never be forgotten, but whether to him or to an- 
other person 1 don't know. Not by him, I am sm-o. 

Wni. And, in short, Mrs William, you see — -wliich 
she wouldn't say herself, Mr. Eedlaw, if she was to stop 
here till the new year after this next one, has done him 
world's of good ! Bless yoii, worlds of good ! All at 
home just as fcnug and comfortable as ever — yet Mrs. 
William ])ackward and fo!-\vard, backward and forward, 
up and down, up and down, a mother to liim. Not con- 
tent with this, sir, Mrs. WilHam goes and finds, this very 



14 THE HAUNTED i^AX. [Act One. 

night, wLon she was coming home, a creature more like 
a wild beast than a young child, shivering on a doorstep. 
Whit does Mrs, William do, but brings it home to dry it 
and feed it. If it ever felt the lire before, it's as much as 
ib tvjr did ; for it's setting in the old Lodge chimney, 
staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shiit 
again. It's sitting Ihjrj, at leas':, unless it's bolted. 

lied. Pleaven keep her happy ! And you, too, Phi'.ipt 
and you, Wdliam ! I must consider what to do in tliis. 
I may desire to see this s!.udent ; I'll not detain you longer 
now. Good night ! 

J*hU. I thank ee, sir ; I thank 'ee, for moiise, and for 
my son NVilliam, and f^r mysJ'. Where's my son Wil- 
liam? Wilham, yoii take the lantern and go on first, 
through them long, dark passages, as you did last year 
and the year afore. Ha, ha ! I remember — t-iough I'm 
eighty-seven ! L jrd keeji my memory green ! It's a very 
good prayer, Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman 
in the peaked beard, with a rujEf roimd his neck — hangs 
lip second on the right of the paneling, in what used tj 
be, afore our ten jjoor gentlemen commuted, our great 
Dinner Hall. Lord keep my memory green ! It's very 
good and pious, sir. Amen ! Amen ! {Exeu.'it Wm., 
Jlillt/ and Philip, door in ^fiaf.) 

\_FreKions to the exit, the Phwitom enters froi/i trap 
in rear of the table, and in concealed from vieir hy the 
t d)le cloth. Iledlavi seated in hir/h-backed chair at r. of 
t ible, apparently tnnsing. iSift Christmas tnicsic in dir.- 
tince. Jsifjhts doirn. Phantom gradually rises to view 
behind chair-back. As lledUcw leans his arm iipon 
the elboio <f his chair, the Phantom gradually leans his 
arm ujton the back of the chair, in the same manner and 
at the same time; both look in the same direction ; have 
the same expression, as near as possible, and seem to 
listen to the music until it ceases.'] 



Acr Onf.] the HAUNTED MA.N. 15 

Red. ( Without tnovlii'j. ) Here again ? 

J'hantoin. {Without Dioci.ny.) Here s g uu ! 

7iec?. I see you in the fire ; I hoar you in music, 
in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night. {Phati- 
tot/i 1II.OV0S ^7,v head in assiiU.) AVI y do you come to 
haunt me thus '( 

Phatxt. I come as I am calle.l. 

lied. No. "Unbidden. 

Phavt. Unbidden be it. It is enough. I am here. 
{Advances quickly to the right and front as Jtedlaw turns 
in his chair/ both stare at each other.) Look upon me! 
I am he, neglected in my youth, and miserably pocr, who 
strove and suffcrad, and still strove and suffered, until I 
liewed out knowledge from the mine where it was bixri jd, 
and made rugged f-.tjps thereof, for my worn feet to rest 
and rise on. 

Red. I am that man, 

Rhant. No mother's self-denying love, no father's 
counsel aided inc. A strargjr came into my father's 
j^lace when I was but a child, and I was easi'y an alien 
from my mother's heart. In the struggle upw;a-d I found 
a friend. All the love and confidence that in my earlier 
youth had had no outlet, and found no exj)ression, I Le- 
fttowed on him. 

Red. Not all. 

Phant. No, not all. I had a sister. 

Red. Iliad. {Head restiny on hands.) 

Rha)d. {Advancing to chair, and restiny his hand 
' upon hack, vith eyes Jixed -m Redlaw.) How young she 
was, how fair, how loving ! I took her to the first poor 
roof that I was master of, and made it rich. Sle came 

into the daikness of my life, and made it bright. She 

is before me ! 

Red. I saw her in the fire, but now. I hear her in 
music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night. 



U) THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Onk. 

J*/t(tnf. Did lie love licr ? I think lio did once. Bot 
tor had she h)ved him loss — loss socrotly, less do.irly, from 
tho shiillowor dojtths of a more divided heart ! 

lU'd. ( With energy, and <tn, anf/ri/ ^notion of the 
hand. , Ijct me fur-jet it. Let me blot it from my mem- 
ory ! 

J'haiit. A dreaiii like here stole upon my own life. 

lied. It did. 

J'hant. A love as like hers, as my inferior nature might 
chi'rish, arose in my own heart. I was too poor to bind 
itn ohjeet to my fortune then by any thread of promise or 
entreat}'. I loved her far too well to seek to do it. But, 
more than ever I h.;d striven in n)y life, I strove to climb. 
I toiletl up, nearer to the height, and when day was 
breaking, what pictures of the future did I see ! 

lied I saw them in the fire, but now. They c; me 
back to me in music, in the wind, in the dead 8tiilu«'B8 of 
the ni;jr''t. in the revolving years. 

Phant. l^ietures of my domestic life in the future, 
■with her who was the inspiration of my toil. Pictures of 
my sister, made the wife of Uiy friend on equal terms ; 
pictures of our sobered age, and mellowed happiness, and 
of the golden links that should bind us and our children 
in a radiant garland. 

lie'l. Pictures that weix! delusions. Why is it my 
doom to remember ti.em so well ? 

J'hant. Delusions. F(jr my fri«>nd passing between 
roe and the centre of the system of my hopes and strug- 
t;lep, won her to himself, and shattered niy frail universe. 
My sister, iloubly dear, doubly devoted, lived oJi t<» see 
m<^ famous, and my old ambition so rewarded, when its 
spring was broken, and then . 

Hid. Then died. Died, gentle as ever happy, and 
Avith no ('(Micern but for her brother. Peace! {Pause.) 
lu'Miembered! Yes. Vm well remembered, that cveu 

4 



Act One.] TIIE II.VUXTED MAN. 17 

now, wlien yera-s ha,ve passe.l, anl lu tliin.c^ iw more idle 
(.r more visionary to me tli ai tlui b^ yiish iove so long out- 
lived. I tiiink of it witli sympathy. Sometimes I tvcn 
wonder if I cv^r bad a p.iico in her liei-rt, and if htr a>- 
fecti jns went witli h r hanl. — .Bit tliat is m t ling. Early 
unliappineoh', a wouu i i'-oni a h md tb;it I loved and trasi- 
ed, and a lohs t lat njLiim.jf iuax ropLiC(j, on Live hucii fuii- 
(ies. 

Pjianf. Thus I beir wit'uu me a sorr.iw an 1 :i v.'ron-;. 
Tlias I i,r y np..n n ysel-\ Tuns menu ry in li y ( urtf : 
aid if 1 cjnid foi-.^^et my surr.:w and my wr n^-, i wonlc'. 

lied. Mickn-I {Leiplicj up, <titd <idr<iitc'n(; threa'- 
fnbiqh/ towt -d Ph'iufoiii , ii'/io rt'reati< /xickicurd.) Wi^y 
Lave 1 i.\ wi.ys t\\ .t t amb in my e.As i 

J* hunt. F r )t!;ir I {/iofh s'op. Phantom iflt/i arm 
raised III ii^arii'iij, <md jijiirc, dra>rii up in triii,iiip/i .) 
L ly a Jian 1 ou nu an I die. ( Purue. ) ir' I couid I'or^^et 
my sorrow an 1 wr.-ng", 1 w u i. 

lied. [l,t trfihihUug loin.) Evil spir't of myself, my 
I'fe is darkdiie l by tii.it iu--ess.mt waispor. 

Phant. Ig is an eel;), 

Jled. If it b.> an eca;) o" my tU.)n.;-jts — is 7iow, I 
hncAV it is, wj y shonl 1 I tlier-, foro be ti,riiJLnte \ 1 1.. is 
not a sellish til ^a^-'it. I s lil' j.r it to r Ji;L,'e b(.y(;nd n.t • - 
self. Al VI n an i w )m jii lin.ve t'leh- S' r.-jwt — ;aost i-f 
tliem tlie'.r wr n ^^s : in ;'Mt/tT le, an I s -r b' T j-ialoiisy and 
interest besettin.,' all de ;veo,-3 of life \V .j w m.d nut 
forget tlieir s r,\j-.vs a i I their wr mj.^s 1 

I*h(inf. AV 10 WwU.l not, tru y, and be the lu] pier 
fcr it ? 

^^.e^l. Thes ! rev )ln'i)n:! of year.^, which v,'e commem- 
orate, what do tJu'ii re^':d ? Are tli.jre any min-ls in which 
t'ley do not r - w.i.k ;n S( m .! sorrow, or some trouble ? 
AVhat is the remtmlri-aiice of the old man who was litre 
to-night? A tiefiue of s.:rr^\v and trouble. 



IS THE HAUNTED A.AN. [Act Oxe. 

Phciitt. Biiu C( rti aon LPctiires. T;nenlig'"atenecl mhi'I.s 
811 1 oraanitry e.pjritt^, do not fcei or reason on those things 
like nun of li .rlier eix.tivation and profouader tliougLt. 

Red. ToiJipttr, wl.ose hollow look iuid voice I dread 
nior ! than I can ^.x^rress, I !iear ligain un echo of my ow;i 
uiir;d. 

Piiai.t. Hereive it rs a proof that I ain powerful. 
Ile^r whit I (fitr ! Forget the sonvw, wrjng and 
trouble y.)u have knrwi. 

JUa. Forg.t t lem ! 

VltAiid. I have the pov/er to cancel their remembranco 
— 'uO leave but very faint, confus-ed traces of them, that 
Avill die out sjon. Say, is it done 't 

Jltd. Stay! Itrenil le with distrust an 1 doubt of 
you — I would not deprive myself of any kindly recollec- 
tion, or any sympatl y that i.i good for me, or others. 
What shall I lose, if I assent to this 't What else will 
piiss fi-oni my rerucabrance ? 

Phaiit. No knowledge ; no result of study ; nothing 
but tlie intertwisted cl a u of feelings and associations, 
each in its turn depen lent on, and nourished by, the ban- 
islied recollecti jns. Those will ^o. 

lie I. Are they so many 'i 

riuint. Tliey have been wont 'm show themselvrs in 
the lire, in music, in the wind, in the dead stillncrss of 
the night, in the revolving yjars. {Mocking] >/.) Decide ! 
beiVre the opporiu:iity is lost! 

lied. A moment ! I call Hexven to witness, that I 
have never been a hater of my kind — never morose, in- 
different, or hard to anything around me. If li-ving here 
jvlone, I have made too much of all that was and might 
have been, and too little of what is, the evil, I believe, 
lias fallen on me, and not on others. But if there were 
poison in \\\y body, shoxild I not, jiosrsessed of antidotes 
und knowledge how to use them, use them? If there hi 



Act One.] TtiE KAUNTED MAX. 19 

poison in my niind, anil tlironyli this fearful shadow I can 
oast it (Hit, sluiil I nut cant it (;ut '( 

J'/uDit. Say, is it dune ? 

J.ed. I would forget It if I could ! IFave I tliouglit 
tiiat aloiio, or lias it boon the llunight of thousands upon 
iJiuusukIs, generation after generation 't All hunuiunjern- 
ory is fraught with sorrow and trouble. ]\ly memory is 
as the memory of other nnni, but other men have not this 
choice. Yes, I close the bargain. Yes! /IT/XZ for- 
get my sorrow, wrong and trouble I 

Vhant. Say, is it done \ 

Red. It is ! 

Phant. It is. And take this with you, man whom I 
hero lenounce ! The gilt I have given 3011 shall give 
again, go ^vhere you will. Without i-ecovering yourself 
the power j-ou have yielded up, you shall henceforth de- 
Ktruy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom 
ii;i«s discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and 
trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind woidd 
be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Co ! be 
its beneiactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this 
hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom 
with you. Its diffusion is insoparuble and inalienable 
from^ou. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, 
and in the good you do ! ( Dhappears quickhj throuf/h 
traj9. Lights vp.) 

lied, ^tay! {Advances and stops.) It will not ! It 
is gone ! {Ajypcars rooted to the sptot, possessed 0/ fear 
tnid wonder.) 

Pliant. {Beloir stage.) Destroy its like in all whom 
you approach. 



20 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. 

Act, [I. 

THE GIFT DirrUSED. 

SCENE I. Tetterby^s aparUnevts in, Jerusalem Jiuihl- 
iiKjs. JHaln chamber, 4 G. JJoor^ i- 2 e. Screen in 
front of door, parted over iri'h scraps of nevspapers. 
Table, c. Trundle bed, b. u. e. iStairirai/, r. i> b. 
J)oor, R. c. in flat. Fire in chimney, c. iti flat. Ttt 
terby discovered seated in front of scree)), reading a 
neuis2)aper. Tiro small boys scuffling in and out tf 
bed, v'lth an occasional dash at two other small boys, 
engaged in building an oyster-shell icall at B. 2. e. 
Johnny Te'iterby, toith Moloch, tottering across the 
stage ton'ard s'ool. near e. e. Mr. TttLerby, throwing 
dov;n paper, rushes toirard the boys, who scamper into 
bed and through door in flat, and pounces d nrn on 
Johnny and boxes his ears. Children sit up in bed 
and jieep through the door. 

Tet. Ytm l>ad boy! Ilavcii't jou uny fcoliiij^ foryonr 
l)oor lutlier, after the fatigues and anxieties of a Iiaid 
winter's (lay, since five o'clock in the morning ; Imt must 
you wither his rest, snd coirode liis httest intelligence, 
with your wicious tricks ? Isn't it enough, sir, that your 
l.rother 'l)ul[»hus is toiling and moiling in the log and 
i-oKl, and ytm r.-Uing in t.e liiii of Inxniy, with a— with 
a bal)/, and everything yon can wish for; hut must you 
make a wilderness ol h'-uie, and maniacs ol'your parents? 
Must you, Johnny y [Sfiaking him.) l\v\ 'i {^^haling 
him. ) 

Johnny. {Wh'inpering.) OS, f;it' er, when I wasn't 
doing anything. I'm suie, but taking sucli care of Sally, 
and g(!tting her to si ep. Oh father! 

Tet. I wish my little woma)i would come homo. [Re- 
Itnting.) I only wish my little woman would come home! 



Act Two.] THE HAUKTED MAN. 21 

I ain't fit to deal with 'em. They make my head go 
round and get the better of me. Oh, Johnny ! Isn't it 
enough that your dear mother has provided you with 
that sweet sister ? Isn't it enough that you were seven 
boys before, without a ray of gxl, and that your dear 
mother went through wliat she did go through, on pur- 
pose that you might all of vdu have a little sister, but 
must you so behave yourself as to maka my head swim ? 
(Embraces Johnny; breaks away a)id pursues the other 
children, who escape to the bed and through the door; 
captures one and p)'i'etehd3 to jyunish hi?n and restores 
order. ) My little woman herself could hardly have done 
better I I only wish my little woman had had it to do, I 
do indeed. (Hestanes his seat at the screen, and reads 
therefrom.) It is an undoubted fact that all remarkable 
men have had remarkable mothers, and have respected 
them in after-life as their best friends. Think of your 
own remarkable mother my boys, and know her 
value while she is still among you. {iSits cross-legged 
in his chair, and takes up his neiospaper. Let any body, 
I don't care who it is, get out cf bed again, and astonish- 
ment will be the portion of that respected contemporary ! 
Johnny, my child, take care of your only sister, Sally ; 
fv^r she's the brightest gem that ever sparkled on your 
early brow. Ah, what a gift that baby is to you, Johnny ! 
and how thankful you ought to be ! {Reading from 
Screen) 'It is not generally known,' Johnny ' but it is a 
fact assertained, by accurate calculations, that the fol- 
lowing immense per centage of babies never attain to 
two years old ; that is to say' — 

Johnny. Oh, don't, father, please ! I can't bear it when 
I think of Sally. 

Tet. Your brother ' Dolphus is late to night, Johnny, 
and will come home like a lump of ice. What's got your 
precious mother ? 



22 TIIE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. 

Johnny. Here's mother, and 'Dolphiis too, f.iiher I I 
tliink. 

I'et. {IJsteninff) You're right ! Yes, that's the foot- 
step of my little womau, she's coming through tiie sho]). 

^nter Mrs. Tetterhy and Master Adolphus. l. 3 e. 

Mrs. 7\ ]} (its her market basket on table ; t.'iro.fjs her 
bonnet and shawl back, and seats herself faf't'juo:! in 
chair at table. Adolphus unwinds a colored comforter 
from his neck, and hangs it on the wall and takes seat 
near k. 2. e 

3lrs. 7\ Johnny! Bring that precious jewel tome, 
for a kiss. (tTohnny totters tcith Moloch fro)u his stool 
to his mother, and back again.) 

Dolph. Johnny ! I must kiss my dear little sister. 
{Johnny as before.) 

Tet. Johnny, my child, bestow the same favor on 
your father. {Johnny as before.) 

3Irs. T. {shaking her head.) Whatever you do, Johnny, 
take care of her, or never look your mother in the face 
again. 

Dolph. Nor your brother ? 

Tet. Nor your father, Johnny. Are you wet, 'Dol- 
phus, my boy % Come and take my chair, and dry your 

self. 

Dolph. No, father, thankee. I ain't very wet. 
{/Smoothing himself down. ) 

Mrs. T. {Having laid her shaicl and bonnet aside, 
begins to lay the cloth for su2)p>er.) Ah ! dear me, dear 
me, dear me ! That's the way the world goes. 

2'ct. Which is the way the world goes, my dear ? 

]\[rs. T. Oh, nothing. {3Ir. 2\ looks up in asto>i- 
ishuient and abstractedly reads his paper. Mrs. T. 
gioes vent to her humor in hitting the table hard with 
the articles she places on it.) Ah! dear me, dear me, 
dear me ! That's the way the world goes. 



AcrTwo.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 23 

'Jet. My du; k you said that before. Which is the 
way the world goes ? 

Mrs. T. Oa, nothing. 

J'et. Sop^iijT, y>ju srid that before, too. 

Zlrs. T. W.!ii. I'll say it again, if you like: Oh, 
nothing— thcr.' ! and again, if you like : Oh, nothing- 
there ! and . g Jn, if you like : oh, nothing — now, then ! 
Tet. {I, I astoins/mient.) My Httle woman, what 
has put you out 't 

Mrs T. I'm sm-e / dont know. Djn't ask me. Who 
said I was put out at all ? 7" never did. 

Tct. ( Lays aside paper, rises and crosses to e.) Your 
Slipper will be ready in a m'nute, 'Dolp.ms. Your mother 
has been out into the wet, to the cook's shop, to buy it. 
It was very good of your mother so to do. You shall 
get some supper, too, very soon, Johnny. Yow mother's 
pleased with you, my man. for being so attentive to your 
precious sister. {Supper ready; children in bed and at 
the door tmtching preparations with interest.) Yes, yes, 
yoiu- supper will be ready in a minute, 'Dolphus — your 
mother went out in the wet to buy it. It was very good 
of your motlier so to do. 

Mrs. T. {Exhibiting signs of contrition, and catch- 
ing TettcrJyj around the neck — weeping.) Oh, 'Dolphus ! 
how could I go and behave so. I am sure, 'Dolphus 
{sobbing), ccming home, I had no more idea than a child 
unborn — 

2'et. Say than the baby, my dear. 

3Irs. T. — Hid no more idea than the baby — Johnny, 
don't look at me, but look at her, or she'll fall out of yom- 
lap and be killed, and then you'll die in agonies of a 
broken heart, and serve you right — no more idea I 
hadn't than that darlin;^-, of being cross when I came 
home : but, somehow, Dolphus — 

Tct. 1 see. I understand. My little woman was put 



2i THE HAUNTED JIAN. [Act Two. 

out. Hard times, and hard weather, and hard work, 
make it trying now and then. 'Dolf, my man, here's 
your mother been and bought, begic'es pee.se jndding, a 
whole knuckle (fa lovely I'oast leg of pork, with lots of 
crackling left upon it, and with ser.sjning and mustfi.rd 
quite unlimited. Hr.nd in your plate, my boy, and be- 
gin while its simmering. ( Tetterhy serves, holph and 
Johnny return to their seats; children steal in and 
silently ai-,peal to them, oixd they dole out a little to each. 
Mrs. T. does not eat, but keeps turning the ring on her 
Jinger; she laughs and cries loithout reason. Tet- 
erby makes a da.->h at the child '-en, and they scamper ojf.) 

Tet. My little woman, if ihe world goes that Vv^ay, it 
I ppears to go the wrong v.ay, and to choke you. 

Mrs. T. Give me a drop of wf.ter, and don't speak to 
me fur the present, or take any notice of me. Don't do 
it. 

Tet. {Gioes water, and turns to Johnny, who is 
munching oti his stool.) Why are you wallowing in 
gluttony and idleness, instead of coming forward with 
the baby, that the sight of the innocent may revi , e its 
mother ? 

Mrs. T. [Johnny approaching icith the burden.) I 
am not in a condition to bear this trying aj)peal to my 
feelings : advance another step and I shall hate you for- 
ever. (Johnny returns to stool.) I am better now. 
( Laughs. ) 

Ttt. My little woman, are you c|uite sure you're bet- 
ter, or are you, Scjihia, about to break out in a fresh 
direction "1 

Jlrs. T. — No, 'Dolphus, no. I'm quite myself. (Set- 
tles her hair, presses the palms of hev hands, and laughs 
again.) Come nearer, 'Dolphus. Let me ease my mind 
and tell you all about it, ( Tet brings his chair closer; 
she laughs, hugs him and wipes her eyes.) You know, 

6 



Act T^vo.] TEE HAUNTED MAN. 25 

'DolphuP, my clear, that when I was single I might have 
given myself away in several directions. At one time, 
four after me at once ; two of them were sons of mars. 
Tet. We're all sons of ma's, my dear, jointly with pa's. 

Mrs. T. I don't mean that ; I mean soldiers — ser- 
geants. 

Tet. Oh ! 

Mrs. 2\ Well, 'Dolphus, I'm sm^e I never think of 
such things now, to regret tliem ; and I'm sure I've got 
as good a husband, and v/ould do as much to prove that 
I was fond of him as — ' 

Tet. As any little woman in the world. Very good. 
Very good. 

Mrs. T. But you see, 'Dolphus, this being Christmas- 
time, when all people who have got money, like to spend 
seme, I did, somehow, get a little out of sorts when I 
w^as in the streets just now. There were so many things 
to be sold — such delicious things to eat, such fine things 
to look at, such delightful things to have — and there was 
so much calculating and calculating necessary, before I 
dm-st lay out a sixpence for the commonest thing ; and 
the basket was so large, and wanted so much in it, antl 
my stock of money was so small, and would go such a 
little way — you hate me, don't you, 'Dolphus % 

Tet. Not quite, as yet, 

Mrs. T. Well! I'll tell you the whole truth, and 
■ then perhaps you will : I felt all this so much when I 
was trudging about in the cold, and when I saw a lot of 
other calculating faces and large baskets trudging about, 
too, that I began to think whether I mightn't have done 
better, and been happier, if I hadn't — ( Turns ring on her 
Jinger, and shakes her doioncast head.) 

Tet. I see, if you hadn't married at all, or if you had 
married somebody else ? 



26 THE HAUNTED xMAN. [Act Two. 

Jfrs. T. {SGhhinr/.) Yes. That's really wliat I 
thought. Do you hate me now, 'Dolphus ? 

Tet. Why, no ; I don't find that I do, as yet. 

3Irs. T. {Kissing him.) I begin to hope you won't, 
now, 'Dolphus, though I haven't told you the worst. I 
can't think what came over me ; I couldn't call up any 
thing that seamed to bind us to each otler. All the 
l^leasui-es and enjoyments we had ever had — theij seemed 
60 poor and ins'gaiiicant, I hated them ; and I could 
think of nothing else except our being poor, and the 
number of mouths there were at home. 

I'et. [Shaking her hand encouragingly.) Well, well, 
my dear, that's truth, after all. We are poor, and there 
are a number of mouths at home here. 

3Irs. T. [Laying her hands upon his shoidders.) 
Ah ! but Dolf, Dolf ! my good, Idnd, patient fellow ; 
when I had been at home a very little while — how differ- 
ent ! oh, Dolf, dear, how different it was. I felt as if 
there was a rush of recollection on me all at once, that 
softened my hard heart and filled it up till it was burst- 
ing. All our struggles for a livelihood, all our cares and 
wants since we have been married, all the times of sick- 
ness, all the hours of watching we have ever had by one 
another, or by the children, seemed to speak to ms and 
say that the}' had made us one, and that I never might 
have been, or could have been, or would have been, any 
other than the wife and mother I am. Then the cheap 
enjoyments that I could have trodden on so cruelly, got 
to be so precious to me — oh, so priceless and dear that I 
couldn't bear to think how much I had wrongdcl them, 

[Enter Redlaio, door l. 2 e. ) 
and I said and say again a hundred times, how could I 
ever behave so, 'Dolphus, how could i ever have the 
heart to do it? ( Weqys on his neck, and, raising her 
head, discovers Eedkuo; screams and ge*s behind Tet- 



\ciT,vo.] THE IIArXTED MAN. 27 

terby; children start from the bed and cling to her; she 
(axes and points at Medlaw.) Look at that man ! Look 
tiitre ! What does he want ? 

7H My dear, I'll ask him if you'll let me go. What's 
the uiatttr? How yon shake. 

j)frs. T. I paw him in the street when I was out just 
now. He lookdJ at me and stood near me. I am afrcud 
of him. 

Tet. Afraid of him ! Why ? 

Mrs. T. I don't know why — I — stop ! husband ! ( One 
hand 071 forehead and one upon, her breast; an ap)p>arent 
and trembling consciousness of losing something.) 

2'et. Are you ill, my dear *? 

Mrs. T. \Muttering.) What is it that is goiDg from 
me again 't W^hat is tiiis that is going away ? Ill ? No, 
I'm quite well. {^LooMng vacantly at the floor.) 

Tet. W^hat may be your pleasure, sir, vrith us ? 

Red. I fear that my coming in unj^erceived has 
fJra-med you; but you were talking and did not hear me. 

I'et. My little woman says that it's not the first time 
you have alarmed her to-night. 

Red. I am sorry for it. I remember to have ob- 
served her, for a few moments only, in the street. I had 
no intention of frightening her. {Redlaw and Mrs. T. 
raise their eyes and regard each other with dread.) My 
name is Eedlaw. I come from the old college, hard by. 
A young gentleman, who is a student there, lodges in 
your house, does he not ? 

Tet. Mr. Denham ? 

Red. Yes. 

Tet. [Passes his hand acro-'-s his forehead a7id looks 
qnieJdy round the room, as if sensible of some change. 
Redlaw step>s back and transfers the look of dread to 
Jiim.) The gentleman's room is up stairs, sir; there's 
a more convenient private entrance, but as you have 



ll I 



THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Two. 



1 1 I come in here, it will save yoiir going cut into the cold, 

■ ' if you take this little staircase, and go up to him that 

wf,y, if you wish to see him. 

J,.€d. Yes, I wish to see him. Can you spare a Hg*ht '' 
I'iit. ( Staring at Redlaio as if stupljied or fascinated. ) 
I'll light you, sir, if you'll follow me. 

Bed. No, I clon't wish to be attended or announced 
to him. He does not expect me. I would rather go 
alone. Piecse give me the light if you can spare it, and 
I'll find the way. {Hastily takes the candle, and in do- 
ing so touches Tetterhy; withdraws his hand qiiicJdy a)id 
ascends the utairicag to the landing, turns and stops; 
children cluster about the another, gazing timidly at 
Redlaw; Mrs. T. seated, twisting the ring round and 
round on her finger; Tetterhy vnth head bent forroard 
on his breast, as if musing sullenly.) 

Tet. [Moughly.) Come! There's enough of this. 
Get to bed here ! 

Mrs. T. The place is inconvenient and small enougli 
without you ; get to bed. 

{Children scamper off to bed, Johnny and the baby 
lagging uust; Mrs T. glances contemptuously arowal 
the room, then sits pondering idly and dejectedly; Tet- 
terhy at the chimney bent over the fire.) 

Redlav\ ( Confusedly.) What have I done ! What 
am I going to do ! 

Fhantorn. {Invisible.) To be the benefactor of 
mankind. 

SCENE II. — A street. Exterior of Jerusalem build- 
ings, 1 G. Sign on building of " Tetterby & Co., 
I I Newsmen. '' 

I Enter Longford and WiUiani. supporting George 

Sv:idgers, foUo\t'cd by Philip, r 

Geo. Father! 

7 



Act T^o.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 29 

Fhil. My boy ! My son George ! ( Goes up to him.) 

Gto. You spoke just now of my being mother's favor- 
ite, long ago. It/s a dreadful thing to think now of long 
ago ! 

Fhil. No, no, no. Think of it. Don't say its dread- 
ful. It's not dreadful to me, my son, 

Geo. It cuts you to the heart, father. 

Fhil. ( Weeping.) Yes, yes, so it does ; but it does 
me good. It's a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but 
it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of 
it too, and your heart will be softened more and more. 
Where's my son William ? Wili'am, my boy, your mo- 
tlier loved him dearly to the last, an 1 with her lattst 
breath said, ' Tell him I forgave him, blessed him and 
Ijrayed for him.' Those were her words to me. ■ I have 
never forgotten them, and I'm eighty-seven. 

Geo. Father ! I feel that I am near death. I am so 
far gone that I can hardly speak, even en what my mind 
most runs on. Is there any hope for me ? 

Fhil, There is hope for all who are soft3ned and 
penitent. There is hope for all such. Oh ! ( Clasping 
his hands and looking vp.) I was thankful, only yester- 
day, that I could remember this unhappy son when he 
was an innocent child. But what a comfort it is now to 
think that even his Creator has that remembrance. 

Geo. Ah, the waste since then, the waste of life since 
then I 

Longford. The sooner we get him to bed, the better. 

Wm. That's what I £ay, that's where it is exactly. 
Come, father ; he'll waste away if we stand hero all the 
evening. You're right, father. Let us get him into his 
lodgings and into his bed, while we can, and once there, 
to keep him as quiet as ever we can, and Mrs, William 
may bring him around in time. Come, ff.ther, come ! 
This is the place. \Exeunt into building.'] 



30 THE HAUNTED AJAN. [Act T.vo. 

8CENE III. — Room in Jeriiaalem huAd'mgs, 2 g. rialn 
chamber; Coiich or lounge at l. 2 e., that can be 
readily withdraton at close of scene; set fireplace, r 2 
E./ small table near head of couch; ttoo chairs. Ed- 
mund Longford, in dressing-gown, discovered lying' 
on couch reading a book. 

Enter liedlazo, n. 

Ed. {Starting iqy.) Mr. Eedlaw ! 

Hed. {Stopping hhn by gesture of the arm.) Dcn't 
come near to me. I will sit here. Remain you where 
you are ! {Seats himself near entrance; Edmund stands 
'irith hand upon the couch, for supjwrt.) I heard by an 
accident — by what accident is no matter — that one of my 
class was ill and solitary. I received no other desarip- 
tion of him than that he lived in this street ; be<]finning 
my enquiries at the first house in it, I have foiind him. 

Ed.- I have been ill, sir ( With cace a7id hesitatioji.), 
but am greatly better. An attack of fever — of the brain, 
I believe — bas weakened me, but I am much better. I 
cannot say I have been solitary in my illness, or I should 
forget the ministering hand that has been near me. 

died. You are speaking of the keeper's wife ? 

Ed. Yes. 

Med. ( With head averted, gazing on the ground — 
cold and apathetic ) I remembered your name, when it 
was mentioned to me down stairs, just now, and I recol- 
lect yoiir face. We have held but very little personal 
communication together? 

Ed. Very little. 

Red. Xoyx have retired and withdrawn from me more 
than any of the rest, I think ? 

Ed. I have, sir. 

r^ed. And why? {Without expression of interest, 
but with a vmyvxird kind of curiosity. ) \\\iy >. How 



AciTwo.] THE HAUNTED UMi. 31 

comes it tlir.t y.;ai hare sought to keep especially from 
lue the know,edg-e of your remaining here, at this season, 
v.'hcn all the rest have cTisiDersed, and of youi- being ill? 
I want to Imt'W why this is ? 

jEd. Mr. Eedlaw, you have discovered me ; you know 
EiV secret. 

JRed. Secret ? I know ? 

jEd. Yes. Your manner, so differant from the inter- 
est and sympathy which endear you to so many hearts, 
your altered voice, the constraint there is in everything 
you say, and in your looks, warn me that you know me. 
That you would conceal it, even now, is but a j)roof to 
me of your natural kindness, and of the bar between us. 

died. Ha, ha, ha ! ( Vacantly and contemptuously.) 

Ed. But, Mr. Eedlaw, as a just man and a good man, 
think how innocent I am, except in name and descent, of 
participation in any wrong inflicted on you, or in any 
sorrovv' ycu have borne. 

Ji'ed. Sorrow ! Ha, ha, ha. "Wrong ! "What are 
those to me ? 

Ed. For Heaven's sake, do not let the mere inter- 
change of a few words with me change you like this, 
sir ! Let me pass again from your knowledge and no- 
tice ; let me occupy my old, reserved and distant place 
among those whom you instruct. Know me only by the 
name I have assumed, and. not by that of Lorg'ord — 

lied. Longford ! {Starts, clasjys his head 'with both 
hands, and advances toioard Edmund, as if inspired 
vnth a memory of the j^ast/ halts, and resumes his for- 
tner expression. ) 

Ed. The name my mother bears, sir ; the name she 
took when she might, perhaps, have taken one more hon- 
ored. Mr. Eedlaw, I know that history. I am the child 
of a marriage that has not proved itself a well-assorted 
or a ha^Dpy one. Fruiu infancy, I have heard you spoken 



32 THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Two. 

of -n-itli honor and respect — with something that was al- 
most reverence. The little lesson I learned from my 
mother has shed a lustre on your name. At last, a pocr 
student mysalf, from whom could I learn but you i 
{liedlair, unmoved, n gards hitn with a stariiig frmon ) 
Our ages and positions are so different, sir, and I am so 
accustomed to regard you from a distance, that I won- 
der at my presumption when I touch upon a theme that 
must awaken many sad and tender memories. But io 
(.ne who — I may say, who felt no common ir.t^rest in my 
mother once — it may be something to hear, now thai all 
is past, with what undescribable feelings of affection I 
have, in my obscurity, regarded you; with what pain and 
reluctance I have kept aloof from yoiu' encouragement 
when a word of it would have made me rich ; yet how I 
have felt it fit that I should hold my course, content to 
know ycu and to be unknown by you. Mr. Eedlaw, 
vrhat I would have laid I have said ill. for my strength 
is strange to me as yet ; but for anything unworthy m 
this fraiid of mine, forgive me, and for all the rest forget 
me. {Advances ioicard Hedlaw, extending his hand.) 

Med. [IStarnly and draioing bade.) Don't come 
nearer to me ! {Edmund ntops — shocked. and2)asses his 
hand though- f idly acroas his forehead as if aioare of 
fioine change. ) The past is pr.sl:. It dies like the brutes. 
Who talks to me of its traces in my life ? He raves or 
lies ! What have I to do with your distempered dreams ? 
If you want money, here it is. {77irou-ing 2>f(^'se on 
table.) 1 came to offer it, anel that is all I came fcr. 
There can be nothing else that brings me hare. [Hold- 
ing his head with both hands, as if trying to remember.) 

There can be nothing else, and yet — 

Ed. ( Takes up the purse and holds it to him.) Take 
it back, sir. I wish you could take from me with it tha 
r^mambrance of your v>-ords and offer. 

8 



Act Iwo.] THE HAUNTED SLiN. 33 

Bed. Yon do ! You do ? 

Ed. I do. 

Ited. {A],proach€s him/ taJces the purse; turns him 
by the arm and looks into his face.) There is sor- 
row and trouble in sickness, is there not? (Laughs.) 

Ed. {Absently.) Yes. 

lied. In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suBiDense, in 
all its train of physical and mental miseries 1 ( Wildly 
and exultingly .) All best forgotten are they not ? 

Miliy. (Outside.) I can see very well, now, thank 
you, Dolf. Don't cry, deaf. Father and mother will be 
comfortable again to-morrow, and home will be comfort- 
able, too. A gentleman with him, is there? 

Mod. [lleleasing his hold of Edmund, icho passes 
his hand con/usedly across his forehead.) I have feared 
from the first moment to meet her. There is a steady 
quality of goodness in her that I dread to influence. I 
may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best in 
her bosom. Knock, e.) Shall I dismiss it as an idle 
foreboding, or still avoid her. (Looking uneasily 
around. Knock, e.) Of all the visitors who could come 
here (in a tone of alarm, turning to Edmund), this is 
the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me ! (Ed- 
mund points to door in flat, and Medlaw passes quickly 
in.) 

Ed. (0)1 couch.) Come in. 

Enter Milly, b. 

Milly. Dear JMr. Edmund (looking aroimd), they 
told me there was a gentleman here. 

Ed. There is no one here but I. 

Milly. There has been some one ? 

Ed. Yes, yes, there has been some one. 

Milly. (Puts little basket on table, aptjyroaches head 
of couch as if expecting a kiiully greeting, and betrays a 



34 THE HAUNTED ilAN. [Act Two. 

little svrprise.) Arc y on quite as well to-uig'ht ? Y mr 
head is not so cool as iu the afoernoou. ( Touchuig iilrn 
071 the broxL'.) 

Ed. {Petulantly.) Tat ; very little ails me. 

Mill I/. {After hasi/ii^fj about tlie room, ami maJcing 
tilings tidg., sits at taMe and begins to sew.) It's the new 
muslin curtain fcr the window, Mr. Edmund. It will 
look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and 
will save your eyes from the light. My William says the 
room should not be too light just now, when you are re- 
covering so well, or the glare miglit make you giddy. 

£Jd. {Fretful and impatient.) The room will do. 

Milly. {Lags down her 7oork and ap2)f'oaches him.) 
The pillows are not comfortable, I will soon put them 
right. 

Ed. Thsj are very well. Leave them alone, pray. 
You make so much of everything. 

Millg. {Pausing, timidly resumes Jicr loorJc. ) Ah, 
Mr. Edmund, how true the saying is, that adversity is a 
good teacher. Health will be more precious to you, after 
this illness, than it has ever been, and j-ears hence, at 
this time of the year, grateful recollections will revive 
kindly memories of those who have served you. When 
I have seen you so touched by the kindness and atten- 
tion of the poor people down stairs, I have felt that you 
thought even that experience some repayment for the 
loess of health ; and I have read in your face, as plain as 
if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow 
we should never know half the gjod there is about lis. 

Ed. {Rising from the couch.) We needn't magnify 
the merit, Mrs. William. The people down st.iirs will 
be paid in good time, I dare say, for any little exbra ser- 
vice they may have rendered me ; I am much obliged to 
you, too. {She stops her vork and looks at him.) I 
can't be made to feel more obliged by your c^z-iq-^-eratin^r 



AcrTwo.] TEE HAUXTED MAN. 35 

the case. I am senyible tliat you have been interested 
in me, and I s.iy I am much obliged to you. What more 
would you have ? {Her 'Mork falls on her lax); he v^alks 
to and fro, s'.opplug noio and then.) I say again I am 
much oblige I lu you. Why weaken my sense of obliga- 
tion by prefviiTiug enormous claims uj^on me? Trouble, 
sorrow, aSliction, adversity ! One might suppose I had 
been dying a score of deatiis here ! 

MlUy. {Rlsbif/ and a2>proach'<.ng him.) Do you be- 
lieve, Mr. Eimuad, that I spoke of the jioor people of 
the horise, v.-ith any reference to my self if To me? 

ICd. Oh ! I think nothing about it, nij good creature. 
I have had an indisposition, which your solicitude — ob- 
serve ! I say solicitude — makes a great deal more of than 
it merits ; and it's over and we can't perpetuate it. 
(7'(//i7v? book and sits at table.) 

Jlcllt/. {Takinrj up her basket.) Mr. Edmund, would 
you rather be alone ? 

Ed. There is no reason why I should detain you here. 

Milly. Except — [Hesitating and showing her work.) 

JEd. Oh ! the curiain, ha, ha, ha ; that's not worth 
staying for. 

Milly. ( Standing before him unth a look of entreaty.) 
If you should Avant me, I will come back v,illingly. When 
you did want me, 1 was quite happy to come ; there was 
no merit in it. I think you must be afraid, that now 
you are getting well, I may be troublesome to you, 
b'ut I should not have been, indeed. I should have 
come no longer than your weakness and confinement 
lasted. You ovre me nothing ; but it is right that you 
should deal as justly by me as if I was a lady — even the 
very lady you love ; and if you suspact me of meanly 
making much of the httle I have tried to do to comfort 
your sick-room, you do yourself more wrong than ever 
you can do me. That" is why I am sorry. That is why 



36 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. 

I am very sorry. [Uxit, r. Ednamd staring drearilt/y 
as i/ tnnisji:ced.] 

lie-enter Redlaw. 

lied. ( Coming doicri stage.) "When sicliness lays its 
hand on you ag^iu {looking at him fiercely), may it be 
soon ! — Die here ! Kot here ! 

Ed. ( Catching at his cloak.) YvTiat hiive you done ? 
What change have you wrought in me "? "What ciu-se 
have you brought upon me '? Give nie back myself ! 

lied. {Yiohntly.) Give me back w^^'st//'/ lam in- 
fected ! I am infectious 1 I am charged with poison for 
my own mind, and the minds of all mankind. "\;\'here I 
felt interest, ccncipasticn, sympathy, I am turning into 
etone. Selfishness and ingratitude spring up in my 
blighted footsteps. I am only less base than the 
wretches whom I make so, that in the moment of trans- 
formation I hate them. Release your hold ! {Struggles 
irith him, strikes him, and exits hurriedly l.) 

Jid. \^Rec.yvers himself quickly and J'ollous after 
Redlaio.'\ I'll not release my hold. He shell not escape 
me until he restores me to myself. \_Exit, l.] 

\^Couch withdraicn.'] 

SCENE lY. — A room in Jerusalem Buildings scantily 
furnished, 4 g.; Geo. Su-idgers on truckle-led near r. 3 
E.; Wm. Szcidgers at bed e., James I^ongford takes 
lighted candle from small stand at head of bed to ans- 
irer knock at door in fiat, l. c; old Philip at bedside, 
R. c; Longford 023ens door and Hedlaw enters. 

Jjong. Mr. Eadlaw ! {^Starts, betrays emotion and 
retires to l u. e. and remains loith his back toio ird Eed- 
lair^ 7i.-ho st02)S, stares at him with sicr2)7'ise, as if endeav- 
oring to recall his recollections.^ 

9 



Act Two.] TEE HAUNTED MAN. 37 

Phil. {&mffi.ing toicard the door.) Mr. Eedlaw, 
this is like you, sir. You have heard of it, aud have 
come after us to render any help you can, {Coming 
doicn to bedside.) Ah, too late, too late, Mr. Redlaw. 

Wm. Thai's what I say, father. That's where it is, 
exactly. To keep as quiet as ever we can while he's a- 
dozing, is the only thing to do. You're right, father. 

lied. "Who is this ? 

Phil. {Kneeling at the bedside.) My son George, 
3Ir. Redlaw. My eldest son, George, who was more his 
mother's pride than all the test. 

Ped. ( Turn 17} g his eyes to I^ongford, as if trying to 
recall him/ Longford exits door in flat. William, who 
is that man that went out ? 

Wm. Why, you see, sir, that's what I say myself. 
Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of 
that, and let himself down, inch by inch, till he can't let 
himself down any lower"? 

Red. Has he done so ? 

Wyn. Just exactly that, sir, as I'm told. He knows 
a little about medicine, it seems, and having been way- 
faring toward Lcndon with my unhappy brother that 
you see here, {Passes his coat sleeve across his eyes.) and 
being a lodger up stairs for the night, he looked in to 
attend upon him. What a mournful spectacle, sir ! But 
that's where it is. It's enough to kill my father. (Pe- 
tires to bedside.) 

Ped. ( Calling to mind the spell he diffused, crosses 
to L. and turns his face from the bed.) Was it only yes- 
terday when I observed the memory of this old man to 
be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid 
to-night to shake it ? Are such remembrances as I can 
drive away so precious to this dying man that I need 
fear for hirn ? No ! I'll stay here. 

Phil. {Still kneeling at the bed.) He was a child 



38 THE HAUNTED AlAN. [Act Two. 

once. He played with chilJrea. Sefore ho laid down 
on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltlesii rest, he 
said his prayers at his poor mother's knee. I have seen 
him do it many a time, and seen her lay his head upon 
her breast and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her, 
and to me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and 
when our hopes and plans for him- were all broken, this 
gave him still a hold upon us that nothing else could 
have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fa- 
thers ujion earth ! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted 
by the errors of thy children, take this wanderer back ! 
Not as he is, but as he was then ; let him cry to Thee as 
he has so often seemed to cry to us 1 

Geo. [Starting iqy.) Stop him ! do not let him go ! 
Where am I "l Father ! 

I^hil. Yes, yes, my son George. 

Geo. My time is very short ; my breath is shorter, 
{^sup2)orting himself on one arm, and toith the other 
groping in the air) and I remember there is something 
on my mind concerning the man who was here just now. 
Father and William — wait ! — is there really anything in 
black out there ? 

l^hil. Yes, yes ; it is real. 

Geo. Is it a man ? 

Wm. {Bending kindly over him.) What I say my- 
self, George. It's Mr. Eedlaw. 

Geo. I thoug'ut I had dreamed of him. Ask him to 
come here. ( Redlaio goes to the bed and George mo- 
tions him to seat himself upon it, xohich he does.) It 
has been so ripped up, to-night, sir, {laying his- hand 
iq^on his heart) by the sight of my poor old father, and 
the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, 
and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, tliat — ' 
{2)asses his arm across his forehead) that what I can do 
right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I'll try 



AcrTwo.] THE HAUXTED MAN. 3s) 

to do There was another man here ; did you see him ? 
( Hand to fonhead. ) 

lied. Tne Sjjeil is coming, I know the fatal sign. 
{Adde.) 1 di,.. 

(jreo. Hu IS penniless, hungry and destitute. He is 
completely beaten down, and nas no resource at all. 
Look after him ! Ljse no time ! I know he has ic in 
his mind to kill himself. 

Med. {Aside.) It is working. His face ia changing, 
hai-dening, dvjepening, in ail iLs shades, and losing uii 
its sorrow. 

Geo. Don't you remember ? Don't you know Long- 
ford? {Pause, hand over face, then lolth a scoiding look 
at Redlaw ) Why, blast you all, v>'hat have you been 
doing to me here ? I have lived bold, and I mean to die 
bold. To the Devil with you ! {Lays bade in bed, puts 
his arms up over his head and ears, as if resolute to keej) 
his threat. Redlaw starts back from the bed and crosses 
to L.; Philip, who has previously left the bed, returniny, 
avoids it quic/dy toith abhorrence.) 

Phil. {Hurriedly. ) Where's my son William ? Wil- 
liam, come away from, here. We'll go home. 

Wm. Home, father ! Are you going to leave your 
own sou ? 

Phil. Where's my son .'' 

Wm. Where ? why there ! 

I^hil. {Trembling vjlth resentment.) That's no son 
of mine. No such wretch as that has any claim on me. 
My children are pleasant to look at, and they wait upon 
me and get my meat and drink ready, and are useful to 
me ; I've a right to it ! I'm eighty-seven. 

Wm. {Hands in pockets .) You're old enough to be 
no older. I don't knov/ what good you are myself. We 
could have a deal more pleasure without you. 

Phil. My son, Mr, Eedlaw! My son, too! The 



40 THE HAUNTED JIAN. [Act Two. 

boy talking to me of my son ! Why what has he evtr 
done to give me pleasure, I should like to know ? 

Wm. {Sulkily. ) I don't know what yv,n have e\er 
done to give me pleasure ? 

FhiL Let me think. For how many ChriBtmas- 
t!mes running, have I sat in my warm place, and ntvtr 
had to come out in the cold night air ; and have made 
good cheer, without being disturbed by any such 
VvTttched sight as him there? Is it twenty, William 'i 

ir???. Nigher forty, it seems. [2^o Redla-w, with 
irritation.) Why, when I look at my father, sir, and 
ome to think of it, I'm whii^jDed if I can see anything 
in him but a calender of ever so many years of eating 
and drinking, and making himself comfortable over and 
over again. 

J^hil. I — I'm eighty-seven, and I don't know as I 
ever was much put out by anything. I've had a power 
of pleasant times. I recollect once — no, I don't — no, 
its broken off. It was something about a game of 
cricket and a friend of mine, but it's somehow broken. 
off. I wonder who he was- — I suppose I liked him ? 
And I wonder what became of him — 1 suppose he died ? 
But I don't know. And I don't care, neither ; I don't 
care a bit. {ChucfcUng and shaking his head,2)ulls a 
hit of holly out of his 'waistcoat jyocket and looks at it.) 
Berries, eh ? Ah ! It's a pity they are not good to eat. 
I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high as 
that, and out a walking with — let me see — who was I 
out a- walking with? — No, I don't remember how that 
wns, I don't remember as I ever walked with any 
one particular, or cared for any one, or any one for 
me. Berries, eh? There's good cheer when there's 
berries. Well ; I ought to have my share of it, and to 
be waited on, and kept warm and comfortable ; for I'm 
eighty-seven, and a poor old man. I'm eighty-seven. 
10 



Act THiiEE.] THE HAU^'TED MAN. 41 

Eiga-ty-.';even ! {Delivered in drloeling , pltlahle man- 
ner — nibbling the leaves of holly, and spitting them out. 

William coldly and sullenly regarding his father; 

George observing them icith determiiied apathy.) 

Ittd. L. I cannot, will not, bear this longer. Shadow 
of myself ! spirit of my darker hours ! come back and 
haunt me day and night, bnt take this gift away ! Or, 
if it must still rest with me, deprive me of the dreadful 
jjower of giving it to others. Undo what I have done. 
Leave me benighted, but restore the day to these poor 
creatures whom I have cursed. \_Exit hastily, l. ] 



Act- ly, 



TUE GIFT REVERSED. 



SCENE I. — A chamber in the College, 1 g.; centre doors 
throxon open, showing Red.latos chamber as in Scene 
1, Act 1; Gauze on inside of doors to be removed or 
dropped after the shade of Milly disappears. Set 
fire-place, l. — painted fire; table and chair, k. c. Soft 
Christmas music at rise of curtain. Redlaio discov- 
ered seated l. of table. The waif lying before the fire 
buried in slumber, l. 2'he Phantom bettoeen the boy 
and door, l. c, observing Hedlaw. Milly looking 
toicard the boy as if in pity. 

Red. {Listening to the music, and moved by it rises, 
stretches forth his hands as if he welcomes the sound — 
trembles gently — his eyes appear filled with tears, puts 
his hands before them, and bows. As the music ceases, 
raises his head to listen.) It tells me the value of what 
I have lost. I fervently thank Heaven for the knovd- 



42 THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Thuke. 

edge — [Discovers Pliantom and Mill//.) Spectre! I 
have not been stubborn or presumptuous iu respoct to 
her. Ob, do not bring her here ! Spare me that ! 

I^hant. This is biit a shadoyr, when the morning 
shines seek out the reaht}' whosa image I j^rasent bafora 
you. 

Ited. Is it my inexorable doom to do so ? 

Phant. It is. 

Red. To destroy her peace, her goodness ; to maka 
her what I am myself and what I have made others ? 

Phant. I have said seek her out. I have said no 
more. 

lied. Oh, tell me, can I undo what I have done ? 

Phant. No. 

Med. I do not ask restoration to myself. What I 
abandoned, I abandoned of my own will, and have justly 
lost. But for those to whom I have transferred the fattJ 
gift ; who never sought it ; who unknowingly received a 
curse of which they had no warning ; and which they 
had no power to shun ; can I do nothing 'i 

Phant. Nothing. 

Jled. If lean not, can any one? {Phantom turns 
///.s" head to JIcll>/.) Ah! can she? {Phantom makes a 
gesture of dismissal, and the low platform upon which 
Mlllij stands is gradually drawn up stage.) Stay. For 
a moment. I know that some change fell \x.\)or\. me when 
those sounds were in the air just now. Tell me, have I 
lost the power of harming her ? May I go near her with- 
out dread? {Phtntom Ijoks at Milly as she sloioly dis- 
appears.) At least, say this — has she henceforth the 
consciousness of any power to sat right what I have 
done ? 

Phant. She has not. 

Ped. H IS she the power bestowed on har without the 
consciousness ? 



AcrTHHEE.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 43 

Pliant. Seek her out when the morning shines. 

( M'dhj disappears. ) 

EecUaw. Ttrrible instructor {o)i his knees to Fhant- 
())h), by vv^hom j; was renounced, but by whom I am re- 
YisiLed — in wnxca and in whose milder aspect, I woukl 
fam beheve I have a gleam of hops— I will obey without 
inquir}', praying that the cry I have sent up in the an- 
guish of my suul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of 
Ihosa whom I have injured beyond human reparation. 
But there is one thing — (Jlising.) 

Phant. You speak to me ol vrhat is lying here. 
{Pointing to the bog. ) 

Ped. 1 do. You know what I would ask. Why has 
this child alone been proof against my influence, and why 
have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship 
with mine ? 

Phant. This is the most complete illustration of a 
human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as 
you have yielded up. No softening memory of sorrow, 
wrong or trouble enters here, because this wretched mor- 
tal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condi- 
tion than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no 
one contrast, no humanizing touch to make a grain of 
such a memory spring up in his hardened breast. iVll 
within this desolate creature is barren wilderness. All 
within the man bereft of what you have resigned is the 
same barren wilderness. Woe to such a man ! Wee, 
ten fold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such 
as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands ! 
Pedlaio clasps his hands, and looks with trembling fear 
and pity from boy to Phantom.) Behold, I say, the 
perfect type of what it was your choice to be. Your iu- 
lluence is powerless here, because from this child's 
bosom you can banish nothing. His thoughts have been 
in terrible comj)anionship with yours, because you have 



44 • THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Thi;f.e. 

gone down to his nnnatnral level. He is the grc^ tli c:f 
man's indifference ; you are the growth of man's i^re- 
f-iimption. The bentficent design of Heaven is in each 
case overthrown, and from the extremes of the imma- 
terial world you come together. {Redlaw stoops down 
and beiids over the boy ioith evident coin2^assio)i and 
st/inpathy. Phantora exits backicard through coitre 
doors, ichich close after him.) 

{Red. Sleep, sleep, poor waif, for unless the spell is 
broken you are henceforth my 02ily companion. Oh, 
Phantoms ! Funishcrs of impious thoughts, lock upon 
me! In the material world, as I have long taught, 
nothing can be spared ; no step or atom in the wondious 
structure could be lost, without a blank being made in 
the great universe, I know, now, it is the same wdth good 
find evil, happiness and sorrow, in the memories of men. 
Pity me ! Eelieve me ! Gone, gone — 

Vt^aif. {Sta)-ti)i[/ I'p.) Cornel joii let me go ! I've 
done nothing to jon. Don't you touch me. You've not 
brought me here to take my money away. 

Red. {Risinf/ from kneeling ocer bog.) No, here's 
more. ( Throws money doicn, boy throtus his body on it 
and watches Redlaw reswne his seat at table, and jij?<is 
his face in his hands/ wJien he picks it up, sits before 
(he Jire and takes crust of bread from his breast and 
munches it.) 

Waif [Listening and starting vp.) Hers's the wo- 
man coming. (Redlaw reaches the door, locks it, and 
stops the boy. Knocking.) Let me go to her, will you i? 

Red. Not now. Stay here. Nobody must pass in 
or out of the room now. Who's that? 

Milly. (Outside.) It's I, sir. Pray, sir, let ms in ! 

Red. No ! not for the world. 

Jlilly. Mr. Eedlaw, Mr. Kedlaw, pray, sir, let me in. 

Red. 'U^hat is the matter ? C Holding the boy. ) 

11 



Act Three.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 45 

M'dly. The miserable man you saw is worse, and 
nothing I can say will wake him from his terrible infatu- 
ation. William's father has turned childish in a moment. 
William himself is changed. The shock has been too 
sudden for him ; I cannot understand him ; he is not 
like himself. Oh, Mr. Redlaw, pray advise me ; help 
me! 

Red. No, no, no ! Not yet ! 

Milly. Mr, Redlaw! Dear sir! George has been 
muttering in his doze about the man you saw, who, he 
fears, will kill himself. 

Red. Better he should do it than come near me ! 

Milly, George says in his wanderings, that you know 
him; that he was your friend once, long ago ; that he is 
the ruined father of a student here — my mind misgives 
me, of the young gentleman who has been ill. What is 
to be done ? How is he to be followed ? How is he to 
be saved ? Mr. Eediaw, pray, oh, pray, advise me I 
Help me ! 

Red. {Struggling loith the hoy to prevent him from 
going to her.) From the darkness of mind, let the glim- 
mering contrition, which I know is there, shine up, and 
show my misery and my hopes. 

Waif. Let me go, will you ? I'll bite you. 

Milly. {.KnocJcing.) Help me, help me, let me in ! 

Red. Wait, Milly, until the morning shines, and I 
will seek you out. 

Milly. Help ! He was your friend once, how shall 
he be followed, how shall he be saved ? They are all 
changed ; {going away) there is no one else to help me ; 
what shall I do ? 

Red. Go, Milly, go, and let us hope for a change in 
the morning. Come, boy, into the adjoining room, and 
await the approach of day. 



46 THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Thuee. 

Waif. I want to go to the woman ! I won't go with 
you! l^Jxeunt b., struggling.'] 

J8@°" Clear 



SCENE II. — Tetterhys apartment as in S^ene /, Act 2. 
3[r. Tetterhy sitting moodily at the breakfast table, 
3Irs. Tetterby driving the children out, door L. 3 e. 

Mrs. T. Begone, now! and don't show yourselves 
till you're sent for. These children will be the death of 
me, and I'm sure, the sooner, the better. ( Goes to table, 
sits, folds her arms, and rocks cradle loith her foot.) 
'Dolphus, why don't you do something? 

Tet. Because I don't care about doing anything. 

Mrs. T. I am sure Z don't. 

Tet. I'll take my oath I don't. 

Mrs. T. You had batter read your paper than do 
nothing at all. 

Tet. What's there to read in a paper 1 

Mrs. T. What? Police. 

Tet. It's n,othing to me. What do I care what peo- 
ple do, or are done to ? 

Mrs. T. Suicides. 

Tet. No business of mine. 

Mrs. 2\ Births, deaths and marriages, are those 
nothing to you ? 

Tet. If the births were all over for good, and all to- 
day, and the deaths were all to begin to-morrow, I don't 
see why it should interest me till I thought it was a-com- 
ing to my turn. As to marriages, I've done it myself, I 
know quite enough abcait them. 

3Irs. T. Oh, you're a consistent man, ain't you ? You 
with the screen of your own making there, made of 
nothing else but bits of newspapers, which you sit and 
read to the childi-en by the half -hour together. 



ActThkee.] the haunted MAN. 47 

Tet. Say, uBed to, if you please. You won't find me 
doing so any more; I'm wiser now. 

Mrs. T. Bah I Wiser, indeed ! Are you better 1 

Tet. I don't know as any of us are better or happier, 
either. {Turning in his chair to the screen.) This used 
to be one of the family favorites, and used to draw tears 
from the children, and make 'em good: 'Melancholy case 
of Destitution. — Yesterday a small man with a baby in 
Lis arms, and surrounded by half-a-dozen ragged little 
ones, of various ages between two and ten, the whole of 
whom were in a famishing condition, appeared before the 
Worthy Magistrate, and made the following recital:' — Ha ! 
I don't understand it, I'm sure. I don't see what it has 
to do with us. 

Mrs. T. How old and shabby he looks 1 I never saw 
such a change in a man. Ah ! dear me, dear me, it was 
a sacrifice! 

Tet. If you mean your marriage was a sacrifice my 
good woman — 

Mrs. T. I do mean it. 

Tet Why, then I mean to say there are two sides to 
that affair ; and that I was the sacrifice ; and that I msh 
the sacrifice hadn't been accepted. 

Mrs. T. I wish it hadn't, with all my heart and soul, 
I do assure you. You can't wish it more than I do. 

Tet. I don't know what I saw in her. I'm sure, if I 
saw anything, it's not there now. I was thinking so 
last night, after supper, by the fire. She's fat, she's 
aging, she won't bear comparison with other women. 

Mrs. T. He's common-looking,, he has no air with 
him, he's small, he's beginning to stoop, and he's getting 
bald. 

Tet. I must have been half out of my mind when I 
did it. 



48 THE HArNTED MAN. [Act Three. 

3Irs. T. My senses must have forsook me. That's 
the only way in which I can explain it to myself. 
Tet. We had better finish our breakfast. 
Mrs. T. I don't want any breakfast. 

Enter Johnny, hastily, r. 3 e. 

Johnny. Here! Mother! Father! Here's Mrs. 
"William coming down the street! {Lifts baby from the 
cradle and exits l. 3 e. 3Ir. and Jlrs. 2\tterby rub their 
foreheads — their faces begin to brighten.) 

2'et. Why, Lord forgive me, what evil tempers have 
I been giving way to ? What has been the matter here ? 

Mrs. 2\ {Sobbing, with her aj^ron to her eyes.) How 
could I ever treat him ill again, after all I said and felt 
last night ? 

y'et. Am I a biiite, or is there any good in me at all ? 
Sopliia ! my little woman ! 

Mrs. T. 'Dolphus, dear. 

Tet. I — I've been in a state of mind that I can't abear 
to think of, Sophia. 

Mrs. T. Oh ! It's nothing to what I've been in, Dolf . 
(/u a burst of grief .) 

Tet. My Sophia, don't take on. I never shall forgive 
myself. I must have nearly broke your heart, I know. 

Mrs. T. No, Dolf, no. It was me ! Me ! 

Tet. My little woman, don't. You make me reproach 
myself dreadful, when you show such a noble spirit. 
Sophia, my dear, you don't know what I thought. I 
showed it bad enough, no doubt ; but what I thought, 
my little woman ! — 

Mrs. T. Oh, dear Dolf, don't ! Don't ! 

Tet. Sophia, I must reveal it. I couldn't rest in my 
conscience unless I mentioned it. My little woman — 

Johnny. {At the door.) Mrs. William's very nearly 
here ! 

12 



Act Thkee.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 49 

Tet. My little woman, I wondered Low [siqiijorting 
hirnself by the chair) I wondered how I had ever ad- 
mired you — I forgot the precious children you have 
brought about me, and thought you didn't look as slim 
as I could wish. I — I never gave a recollection to the 
cares you've had as my wife, and along of me and mine, 
when you might have had hardly any with another man, 
who got on better and was luckier than me. I quarreled 
with you for having aged a little in the rough years you 
have hghtened for me. Can you believe it, my little 
woman ? I hardly can myself. 

Mrs. T. {Laughing and crying, catches his face in 
her hands.) Oh, Dolf ! I am so haj^py that you thought 
so ; 1 am so grateful that you thought so ! For 1 thought 
that you were common-looking, Dolf ; and so you are, 
my dear, and may you be the commonest of all sights in 
my eyes, till you close them with your own good hands. 
I thought that you were small ; and so you are, and I'll 
make much of you because you are, and more of you be- 
cause I love my husband. I thought that you began to 
stoop ; and so you do, and you shall lean on me, and I'll 
do all I can to keep you up. I thought there was no air 
about you ; but there is, and it's the air of home, and 
that's the purest and best there is, and Heaven bless 
home once more, and all belonging to it, Dolf! (Em- 
brace. ) 

Johnny. (At the door.) Hurrah ! Here's Mrs, Wil- 
liam! 

Enter Milly and the children, door l. 3 e., trooping and 
dancing around her — running and kissing Mr. and 
Mrs. Tetterby ; Milly kisses the baby and Johnny, 
Mr. and Mrs. T. kiss 3Iilly's hands. 

Milly. What I are you all so glad to see me, toe, this 
bright Christmas morning? Oh, dear, how delightful 



50 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act TEra:E. 

this is ! Oil, dear, what delicioiia tears you make me 
shed. How can I ever have deserved this ? What have 
I done to be so loved? 

Tet. Who can help it ? 

Mrs. T. Who can help it ? 

Children. Yv^'ho can help it ? {dinging to her dress, 
and laying their faces against it.) 

Milly. I never was so moved [drying her eyes) as I 
have been this mornin^-. I must tell you as soon as I 
can speak. Mr. Redlaw came to me at sunrise, and wibh 
a tenderness in his manner, more as if I had been his 
darling daughter than myself, implored me to go with 
him to where William's brother George is lying ill. We 
went together, and all the way along he was so kind and 
so subdued, and seemed to put such trust and hope in 
me, that I could not help crying with pleasure. Wueji 
we got to the house we met a woman at the door — some- 
body had bruised and hurt her, I am a'raid — who caught 
me by the hand, and blessed me as I passed. 

Tet. She was right, she was right. 

J/>s. T. Just as I would have done myself. 

Milly. Ah, but ttiore's more than that. When we 
got up-stairs into the room, the sick man, who had lain 
for hours in a state from which no effort, could rouse 
him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, 
stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a 
misspent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in 
his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as 
a great prospect, from which a dense cloud had cleared 
away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old fa- 
ther for his pardon and for his blessing, and to say a 
prayer beside his bed. And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw 
joined in it so fervently, and then bo thanked and 
thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that ray heart quite 
overflcwed, and I could have done nothing but scb and 



A.CT Three.] THE IIAUI^TED MAN. 51 

ci'v, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by 
liim — which made me quiet, of course. As I sat there, 
he held my hand in his imtil he sunk in a doze ; and even 
then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come 
hero — wliich Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in 
witihing me to do — his hand felt for mine, so that some 
one else was obligad to take my place and make believe 
to give him my hand ba?k. Oh dear, oh dear (sobbing). 
How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, 
for all this. [Redlaw enters door Ij. 3 k. , j^ctuses to ob- 
serve the group, then ascends the stairs and stops on the 
landing.) 

Mrs. T. You are a dear good creature, and deserve 
to be loved by everybody. 

Childnn. Yes, we all love her ! 

Hilly. Oh dear, oh dear, there's Mr. Redlaw waiting 
for me, and I wasting my time here, vv-hen Mr. Edmund 
may want me. I am coming, Mr. Redlaw. Good-bye, 
dear children, I'll see you again by and by. (Ascends 
the stairs.) 

SCENE III. — Exterior of Jerusalem JJuildings as in 
Scene 2, Act 2. 

Enter Milly. door in flat,folloioed by Redlaw, meetinf/ 
Mdinund-R., Redlaw uiithdra^os to l. 

Ed. Ah, my kind nurse, (falling on his knees cmd 
taking her hand ) gentlest, best of creatures, forgive my 
ingratitude ! 

Milly. (Guilelessly.) Oh dear, oh dear! here's an- 
other of them ! Oh dear, here's somebody else who 
likes me. What shall I ever do. (Puts her hands be- 
fore her face and apj^ears to loeepfor Joy.) 

Ed. I was not myself. I don't know what it was — it 
was some consequence of my disorder, perhaps — I was 
mad. But I am so no longer. Almost as I speak I am 



52 THE HAUNTED MAIs. [Act Thkee. 

restored. I heard the children crying out your name, 
and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it. 
Oh, don't weep ! Dear Mrs. WiUiam, if you could read 
my heart, and only know with what affection and what 
grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let ma see 
you weep. It is such deep reproach. 

Milly. No, no, it's not that. It's not, indeed. It's 
joy. It's wonder that you should think it necessary to 
ask me to forgive so little, and yet it's pleasure that you 
do. 

Ed. And will you come again ? and will you finish 
the little curtain? 

Jinily. No. [Drying her eyes and shaking her head.) 
You won't care for my needle work now. 

Ed. Is it forgiving me to say that ? 

Milly. ( Takes him aside and whispers.) There is 
news from your home, Mr. Edmund. 

Ed. News? IIow? 

3Iilly. Either your not writing when you were very 
ill, or the change in your handwriting when you began 
to be better, created some suspicion of the truth ; how- 
ever that is — but you're sure you'll not be the worse for 
any news, if it's not bad news ? 

Ed. Sure. 

Jlilly. Then there's some one come ! 

Ed. My mother ? (Glancing toward Medlaw.) 

Milly. Hush ! No. 

Ed. It can be no one else. 

Milly. Indeed. Are you sure ? 

Ed. It is not — 

3Iilly. {-Puts her hand over his mouth.) Yes it is ! 
The young lady — she is very like the miniature, Mr. Ed- 
mund, but she is prettier — was too unhappy to rest 
without satisfying her doubts, and came up last night, 
with a little servant-maid. As you always dated your 
13 



iCT TmjEE.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 53 

letter from the college, she came there ; and before I 
saw Mr. Kedlaw this morning, I saAV her. She likes me, 
too ! Oh, dear, that's another. 

JUd. This morning 1 Yv'here is she now ? 

31 illy. Why, she is now {adva7icing her lips to his 
ear) in my little parlor in the lodge, and waiting to see 
you. {Starts to go, but she detains him.) Mr. Redlaw 
is much altered, and has told me this morning that his 
memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. 
Edmund ; he needs that from us all. 

Ed. Dear Mrs. William, your caution shall be heed- 
ed. For the present, good-bye. {Exit tl.. As he passes 
Hedlain, bows respectfully to him, Redlaw returns the 
salutation courteously and even huinbly; looks after him, 
drops his head in his ha)id, as if trying to remember. ) 

Jfilly. Come, Mr. Redlaw, time is flying. 

Hed. {Bousing himself.) Where shall we go ? 

Milly. Shall we not go home, now, where my hus- 
band and father are ? 

Red. Yes. {Puts his arm in hers. Exeunt -r.) 

SCENE IV.— ^ room in the Porter's Lodge, 4: a. Philip 
seated in his chair iti the chimney-corner, with eyes 
fixed on the ground ; William on opyposite side of 
fire-place, leaning against mantel and regarding his 
father. Enter Milly ■&., followed by Redlaxo who re- 
mains at E. Philip and William brighten up. 

Milly. Oh, dear, dear, dear, they are pleased to see 
me, like the rest. ( Clapping her hands in ecstacy, and 
stox>2>ing short.) Here are two more I {Ru7is into Wil- 
liam's arms, and lays head on his shoidder. ) 

Philip. {Rising.) Why, where has my quiet Mouse 
been all this time ? She has been a long while away. 
{Embracing Milly.) I find that it's impossible for me 
to get along without. Mouse. I — where's my son Wil- 



54 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Three. 

Ham — I fancy I have been droaming, William. 

William. That's "u-hat I say myself, father, /have 
been in an ugly sort of dream, I think — Ilovr are you, 
father ? Are you pretty well ? 

Phil. Strong and brave, ray boy. 
Wm. (^Shaking hands with him , patting him on the 
hick, and rubbing him gentlg down.) "What a wonder- 
ful man you are, father ! Are you really pretty hearty, 
though ? 

I^hil. I never was fresher or etouter in my life, my 
boy. 

Wm. What a wonderful man you are, father! But 
that's exactly where it is. When I think of all that my 
father's gone through, and all the chances and changes 
and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in 
the course of his long life, and under which his head has 
grown gray, and years upon years have gathered on it, 
I feel as if we couldn't do enough to honor the old gen- 
tleman and make his old age easy. — How are you, father? 
Are you really pretty well, though ? 

I^hil. I ask your pardon, Mr. Eedlaw, but didn't 
know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. 
It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on Christ- 
mas morning, of the time when you was a student your- 
self, and worked so hard that you was backward and 
forward in o<ir library even at Christmas-time. Ha ! ha ! 
I'm old enough to remember that ; and I remember it 
right well, I do, though I'm eighty-seven. It was after 
you left hero that my poor wife died. You remember 
my poor wife, Mr. Eedlaw ? 

Hed. Yes. 

Phil. Yes, she was a dear creature — I recollect yoii 
come here one Christmas morning with a young lady — 
I ask your pardon, Mr. Redlaw, but I think it was a sis- 
ter that you was very much attached to? 



AcrTnEEZ.] THE ILiUXTED MAX. 55 

Ited. I do not remember — I had a sister. 

Phil. One Christmas morning, that you came here 
with her, and it began to snow, and my wife invited the 
3'oung lady to walk in and sit by the fire that is always 
a-burning on Christmas Day, in what used to be, before 
cur ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great dinner hall. 
I was there ; and I recollect as I was stirring up the 
blaze for the young lady to warm her pretty feet by, she 
read the scroll out loud that is underneath that pictui'e, 
' Lord, keep ray memory green!' She and my poor wife 
fell a-talking about it ; and it's a strange thing to think 
of, now, and they both said — both being so unlike to die 
— that it was a good jDrayer, and it was one they would 
l)ut up very earnestly, if they were called away young, 
with reference to those who were dearest to them. ' My 
brother,' says the young lady, 'My husband,' says my 
poor wife, '■Lord, keep his viemory of me green, and do 
not let me he forgotten /' {Milly endeavors by signs to 
sto]) him.) 

Red. {In a broken voice, and laying his hand upo7i 
his arm.) Philip! lam a stricken man, on whom the 
hand of Providence has fallen heavily,, although de 
eervedly. You speak to me, my friend, of what I cannot 
follow ; my memory is gone. 

Phil. Merciful Power ! 

lied. I have lost my memory of sorrow, wrong and 
trouble, and with that have lost all that man would re- 
member. 

Phil. ( Wheeling his great chair l. c. for Itedlan'. ) 
Oh, Mr. Kedlaw, all that is most precious to me in my 
old age are such recollections of the past. 

Enter Waif-R., runs to Milly. 

Waif. Here's the man, in the other room. I don'c 
want him. 



56 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Teeee. 

W?n. "What man does he mean ? 

Mill I/, flush ! ( Makes signs for William, and Fit Hip 
to toithdraic — they exeunt door l. c. ) 

Hed. Come here, my poor unfortunate. {Beckons 
for him.) 

Waif [Holding to Millys skirt.) I like the woman 
best. 

lied. You are right. ( With comjjnssion.) Eut you 
needn't fear to come to me. I am gentler than I was, of 
all the world to you, poor child ! ( The vxiif urged by 
3Iilly, sits at liedlaio' s feet, uho lays his hand tipon the 
hoys shoidder, and extends the other to 3Iilly, tcho 
kneels at his side so that she caii look into his face.) 

Milly. Mr. Eedlaw, may I speak to you '? 

lied. Yes. {Fixing his eyes upon her.) Your voice 
and music are the same to me. 

Milly. May I ask you something ? 

Med. What you will. 

Milly. Do you remember what I said when I knocked 
at your door, last night? About one who was yoiir 
friend once, and who stood on the verge of destruction ? 

lied. Yes, I — I remember. {Smooths the boy's hair, 
and looks at her fixedly.) 

Milly. This person I found soon afterward. I went 
back to the house, and, with Heaven's help, traced him. 
"i was not too soon. A very little, and I should have 
been too late. He is the father of Mr. Edmund, the 
young gentleman we saw just now. His real name is 
Longford. You recollect the name? 

lied. I recollect the name. 

3Iilly. And the man ? 

Jied. No, not the man. Did he ever vrrong me ? 

Milly. Yes. 

Hed. Ah! Then it's hopeless — hopeless. 

3filly. I did not go to Mr. Edmund last night. You 



Act Thuhs.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 57 

will listen to ma just the same as if ycu did remember 
all? 

lied. To every syllable you eay. 

Milly. Eccj,usG I did not knoAV, then, that the man 
was really his father. " Since I have known who this jDcr- 
8on is, I have not gone either ; but that is for another 
reason. He has long been separated from his wife and 
son — has been a stranger to his home almost from this 
son's infancy, I learn from him — and has abandoned and 
deserted what he should have held most dear. In all 
that time he has been falling from the state of a gentle- 
man, more and more, until — [JRises hastily and going off 
K., returns with Longford.) he has become the total 
wreck you behold. 

Med. Do you know me ? 

Long. I should be glad — and that is an unwonted 
word for me to use — if I could answer no. 

Milly. {Resuming her position, stretching her arm to- 
%Dard Longford, without looking from Hedlatos face, 
who regards her attentively.) See how low he is sunk, 
how lost he is ! If you could remember all that is con- 
nected with him, do you not think it would move your 
pity to reflect that one you ever loved should come to 
this? 

lied. {His eyes wander to Longford, hut come back 
to her, on whom he gazes intently.) I hope it would. 
I believe it would. 

Milly. I have no learning, and you have much ; I am 
not used to think, and you are always thinking. May I 
tell you why it seema to me a good thing for us to re- 
member wrong that has been done us ? 

Red. Yes. 

Milly. That we may forgive it. 

Red. Pardon me, great Heaven ! for having thrown 
away thine own high attribute ! 



5S THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Thukb. 

Mllly. And if 3'our memory should one day be re- 
stored, as we all hope and pray it may be, wo aid it not 
be a blessing to recall at once a wrong and its forgive- 
ness ? He cannot go to his abandoned home. He does 
not seek to go there, fle-knows that he could only car- 
ry shame and trouble to those he has so cruelly neglect- 
ed, and that the besi reparation he can make them now is 
to avoid them. A very little money, carefully bestowed, 
would remove him to some distant place, where he might 
live and do no wrong, and make euch atonement as is 
left within his power for the wrong he has done. To 
the unfortunate lady who is his wife, and to his son, 
this would be the best and kindest boon that their best 
friend could give them — one, too, that they need never 
know of; and to him, shattered in reputation, mind and 
body, it might be salvation. 

lied. ( Taking her head betioeen his hands and kiss 
iug her brow. ) It shall be done. I trust to you to do 
it for me, now and secretly ; and to tell him that I would 
forgive him, if I was so happy as to know for what. 

Long. {Adoancing a stej) without raising his eyes.) 
You are so generous — you ever were — that you will try 
to banish your rising sense of retribution in the spec- 
tide that is before you. I do not try to banish it from 
myself, Redlaw. I am too decayed a wretch to make 
professions ; I recollect my own career too well to array 
any such before you. But from the day on which I 
made my first step downward, in dealing falsely by you, 
1 have gone dovv'n with a certain, steady, doomed pro- 
gression. I might have been another man, my life 
might have been another life, if I had avoided that llr^t 
fatal step. I speak like a man taken from the grave. I 
should have made my own grave last night had it not 
been for this blsssed hand. 

Millg. {In ail undertone ) Oh, dear, he likes mo, too ! 



Acr Three.] THE HAUNTED MAX. 59 

Long. I coulJ not have put myself in your way, last 
nig-iit, even for bread. Bat to-daj, my recollection of 
what has been is so strongly stirred, that I have dared 
to come at her suggestion, and to take your bounty, and 
to thank you for it, and to beg you, Redlaw, in your dy- 
ing hour, to be as mercif al to me in your thoughts as 
you are in your deeds. {Tunis toward the door and 
stops.) I hope my son may interest you for his mother's 
sake. I hope he may deserve tcT do so. Unless my life 
should be preserved a long time, and I should know 
that I have not misused your- aid, I shall never look upon 
him more. (liaises his eyes to Jiedlaw, wlio dreamily 
extends his hayid. Longford returns, touches it with 
both his Qimi, and loith head boiced do^cn, exits sUnvly k. 
Medlaio covers his face wiih his hands; Jlilly proceeds 
to put some u^arnx clothing on the boy.) 

Enter IVillia^n and L'hilip door in fiat. 

'Wm. (Pointing to Milly.) That's exactly where it 
is. That's what I always say, father. There's a mo- 
therly feeling in Mrs. William's breast that must and 
will have went ! 

Phil. Ay. ay ; you're right. My son William's right. 

IFm. ( Tenderly.) It happens all for the best, Milly, 
dear, no doubt, that we have no children of our own ; 
and yet I sometimes wish you had one to love and 
cherish. Our little dead child, that you built such 
hopes upon, has made you quiet like, Milly. 

Milly. I am vei-y hapj^y in the recollection of it, Wil- 
liam, dear. I think of it every day. 

Wm. I was afraid you thought of it a good deal. 
Milly. Don't say afraid ; it is a comfort to me ; it 
gpeaka to me in so miny ways. The innocent thing 
whose stay on earth was so brief, is like an angel to me, 
William. 



60 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Trtssl. 

W7n. {Softly.) You are like an angel to fiilhcr Lncl 
me, I know that. 

Milly. When I think of all the hopes I built rpon it, 
and the many times I sat and gazed into the litLle smil- 
ing face, and sweet eyes turned up to mine, I can feel 
a greater tenderness, I think, for all the disappointed 
hopes in which there ia no harm. When I see a beauti- 
ful child in its fond mother's arms, I love it all the bet- 
ter, thinking that my child might have been like th£.t, 
and might have made my heart as proud and happy. 
[Hedlaw raises his head and regards her loith interest.) 
All through life, it seems to me, to tell me something. 
For poor, neglected children, my little child pleads as 
if it were alive, and had a voice I knew, with which to 
ei^eak to me. When I hear of youth in suffering and 
shame, I think my child might have come to that, and 
that Jle who gave it, took it from me in His mercy. 
{7\tkin g William s arm and laying her head against it.) 
Children love me so, that sometimes I half fancy — it's 
a silly fancy, William — they have some way I don't 
know of, of feeling for my little child, and me, and un- 
derstanding why their love is precious to me. If I have 
been quiet since, I have been more haj^py, William, in a 
hundi-ed ways. Not least happy, dear, in this — that 
even when my little child died, and I was sorrowful, 
and could not help grieving, the thought arose, that 
if I tried to lead a good life, I should meet in Heaven 
a bright creature, who would call me mother. 

lied. {Falling iqoon his knees to 3filly.) Thou, 
who, through the teachings of pure love, hast graceously 
restored me to the memory, which was the memory of 
Him upon the cross, receive my thanks, and bless her I 
{JSmbraces her and shakes hands xcith William and 
Philip.) 

Milly. {Laughing and sobbing.) He is come back 

15 



Icr Thbhe.] the IIAUKTED MAN. CI 

to himself ! He likes me Tcry much inJeed, toe ! Oh, 
dear, clear, dear, me ! 

Enter Edniimd Longford s., leading Alice ly t/ie hand, 
uiho seems afraid to come. 

lied. Come hither, my children, you awaken softened 
memories of a chastened passage in my own life, to 
which, as to a shady tree, the peaceful dove so long 
imprisoned in his solitary ark might fly for rest and 
company; so may I find rest and love here. Hence- 
forth be my children, and let me share your lore and 
happiness. ( Turning to the boy, who has been better 
clad, and v;ashed, by Milly, laying his hand upon his 
head.) As Christmas is a time in which, of all times 
in the year, the memory of every remediable sorrow, 
wrong and trouble in the world around us should be 
active with us, I hero pledge myself to protect, teach 
and reclaim this boy, and do all in my power to 
make him the being which his loving Creator intend- 
ed. [Giving his right hand cheerily to l^hillp.) 
Philip, so blessed with happy memories of sorrow, 
wrong and trouble, we will this day hold a Christmas 
dinner, in what used to be, before the ten poor gen- 
tlemen commuted, their great Dinner Hall ; and you 
will bid to it, as many of that Swidger family, whom, 
your son William tells me, are so numerous, that 
they might join hands and make a ring round England, 
as can be brought together on short notice. ( To au- 
dience. ) If v/c would realize true happiness, or promote 
the happiness of others, let us not forget the past, but 
profit by its purifying teachings, and our prayer will 
.be that of the sedate gentleman in a peaked beard, 
with a ruff round his neck, 'Lord! keep my memory 
green !' 

CURTAIN. 

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